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THE 




SOUL OF THE BISHOP 


BY 

JOHN STRANGE WESTTEET^ • ^ J 

AUTHOR OP “ ROOTLES’ BABY,” ETC. 


^UYVL/t», 


V VJ'VAJ' I A 




cxnr\ 





NEW YORK 

J. SELWIN TAIT & SONS 



Copyright, 1893, by 
J. SELWIN TAIT & SONS 


TROW DIRECTORY 

PRIHTINO AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY 
NEW YORK 


■CO 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

The New Bishop, 1 

CHAPTER II. 

Dawn, 12 

CHAPTER III. 

What will the Story of These Two Be ? . .30 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Comfortable Fatima, 42 

CHAPTER V. 

Not Good Enough 1 65 

CHAPTER VI. 

One Word, 83 

CHAPTER VII. 

My Homage to You, 97 

CHAPTER VIII. 

A Straight Question, Ill 

CHAPTER IX. 

A Plain Answer I 130 


IV 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER X. 

An Aching Soul, 

PAGE 

. 143 

CHAPTER XI. 

And What Else ? 

. 159 

CHAPTER XII. 

Cross-questions and Crooked Answers, . 

. 170 

CHAPTER XIII. 

A Nine Days’ Wonder, 

. 179 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Calm Discussion, 


CHAPTER XV. 

CouLEUR DE Rose, 

. 206 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Face to Face with the Truth, 

. 216 

CHAPTER XVIL 

The Pieces don’t Fit ! 

. 231 

CHAPTER XVm. 

Sore Stricken, 

. 251 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Food for the Busy-bodies, .... 

. 258 

CHAPTER XX. 

Alone in the World, 

. 272 


CHAPTER XXI. 


Amen ! ” 


291 


PREFACE, 


In presenting “ The Soul of the Bishop ” to the 
world, I feel that it is necessary for me to make 
some explanation to my readers as to the reason 
which has made me choose this unlikely theme as 
the motive of this story. I use the word “ unlike- 
ly ” advisedly, because I am aware that I have the 
reputation of being a writer of light stories, of 
pretty tribes, _pour passer le temps, which is one of 
the disadvantages of beginning to write novels 
while very young, as it often creates a difficulty in 
more mature years when the author wishes to be 
taken seriously, feeling strongly that the work has 
grown in quality or in strength with the years that 
have gone by. 

“ The Soul of the Bishop ” has been on my mind 
for n^ore than two years, and I now offer it to the 
world with much diffidence, being not very sure 
whether I have made out a good case or not. But 
if my readers see what my aim has been, that it has 
been to present with unmistakable force an atti- 
tude of mind which is very prevalent to day, then 
I shall not feel that I have thrown my work 
away. 


VI 


PREFACE. 


I have not attempted to elucidate the situation, 
nor have I tried to bring the story to the conven- 
tional ending usual in such tales— a practice which, 
to my mind, has utterly spoiled some of the best 
and most interesting novels bearing on religion, 
which have appeared of late years. What I have 
tried to show is the working of a mind so thoroughly 
endowed with practical common-sense as to be un- 
able to reconcile an innate sense of justice and an 
intense desire to follow real Christianity — I mean 
the original religion which Christ Himself taught 
(regarding Him from any Christian stand-point, or 
even from that of the Agnostic) — with the so-called 
religion of Christ as laid down by some of the dog- 
mas to which the Orthodox Church sets her seal 
to-day. I have tried to show how a really honest 
mind may, and, alas, too often does, suffer mental 
and moral shipwreck over those rocks which the 
Church allows to endanger the channel to a harbor 
never easy to navigate at any time. 

I do not, of course, presume to expect that my 
story will do much to bring about the removal of 
those rocks and stumbling-blocks which the Church 
permits to stand in the way of those who wish to 
believe in a religion which shall be in true accord 
with that plain, unselfish, and eminently practical 
one which Christ Himself taught while on earth. 
Hor do I expect that any words of mine will cause 
the Church’s Articles of Eeligion to be pruned of 
those which common-sense rejects, and so make the 


PREFACE. 


vii 

Orthodox Church one more in accord with the 
advanced tlionglit, cultivation, and enlightenment of 
modern times, instead of remaining as it is now, 
fast bound by the out-of-date and worse than use- 
less dogmas of a constitution formed at a time when 
every energy was directed so as to offer as much 
opposition as possible toward the Church of Rome 
— an aim which was served to such an extent that 
the real and practical religion of Christ was almost 
lost sight of. I only desire to show that these 
rocks do exist, and that their effect upon thousands 
of men and women who are, by the very conditions 
under which we live, being taught day by day to 
think for themselves on spiritual matters, is terrible 
indeed. 

It was not many years ago that a great Church- 
man, one in a position of much authority, refused 
in any way to countenance a meeting of the British 
Association, which was held in the town over which 
he held spiritual sway, on the ground that the 
tendency of such meetings was bad for “ the peo- 
ple,” causing them to think for themselves and 
to discuss questions which had best remain un- 
touched. Therefore, during that week while the 
meetings were taking place, he never once entered 
the town. To me the fact that a highly cultivated 
scholar could put forth views so deliberately blind- 
ing came as the surest proof that there must be 
something to find out, something to make ecclesias- 
tics afraid of “ the people ” learning about the 


PREFACE. 


viii 

religion wliicli they professed ; and this was the 
very first thing which set me thinking of these 
matters. 

This was some years before I came to London 
and mingled among those who will insist on think- 
ing for themselves, even about the abstruse points 
of their religion. Since those days the wave of 
independent thought has grown and thriven apace ; 
and to-day men and women will judge for them- 
selves, regardless of the continual exhortations 
which, from time to time, peal forth from almost 
every Orthodox pulpit in the land, to the effect that 
it is impossible for the laity to think rightly for 
themselves, and that their only safety lies in being 
content to believe what the clergy tell them they 
must believe — in order to he saved ! 

In the face of this growing tendency the ques- 
tion arises. Is it right or wise of the Church to 
stand by hard-and-fast rules, framed by men pos- 
sessed only of the narrow, highly prejudiced views 
and opinions of the Middle Ages, or of times even 
more remote than those? I imagine that the 
majority of those who thinTc — the Agnostics, who 
are increasing every day ; the Freethinkers, who are 
many; and all the multitude of creedless Chris- 
tians, who are legion — will be of one opinion and 
will join in saying — NO ! 

John Strange Winter. 


THE 


SOUL OF THE BISHOP 

CHAPTER L 

THE NEW BISHOP. 

“ Who is the honest man ? 

He that doth still and strongly good pursue, 

To God, his neighbor, and himself most true ; 

Whom neither force nor faurning can 
Unfix, or wrench from giving all their due.” 

—Herbert. 

“ His bishopric let another take I ” 

— AcU. 

The old city of Btankliampton was in mourning, 
for John, by Divine Providence Lord Bishop of 
the Diocese, was lying dead in his Palace a couple 
of miles away, and people were speaking more kind- 
ly of him than they had done for long enough. In 
truth the late Bishop had not been always a very 
popular man, but had been of an austere manner 
and somewhat haughty of demeanor; still the 


2 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


townspeople had forgotten all that now, and only 
recalled his great learning, his magnificent powers 
of work, and his unimpeachable domestic qualities. 
They told each other that it would be well for the 
county and for the town, if all the clergy had proved 
themselves to be as perfectly devoted husbands and 
fathers as the late Prelate had undoubtedly set 
them the example of being. They reminded each 
other that if the dead man had had some unlovable 
qualities, he had had others that were eminently 
lovable. If his high-stepping horses had seemed, 
to his poorer brethren, to be sure signs of their 
Bishop’s arrogance and haughtiness of mind, yet 
those same horses had never been turned out on to 
the hard world, to work out their declining years in 
underfed neglect, for no horses had ever been sold 
out of the episcopal stables during the whole of the 
dead man’s reign. 

Well, the reign had come to an end now, and the 
shutters kept up in the windows of the principal 
shops in sign of mourning did honor to him who 
was but just departed from among them. There 
was much hurrying to and fro at the Palace, there 
was a great deal of extra business for the florists, 
and there was a great gathering of clergy and laity 
on the cold wintry morning when John, by Divine 
Providence Lord Bishop of the Diocese, was laid to 
sleep, not with his fathers, but with his predecessors ; 


THE NHW BISHOP. 


3 


and then that chapter in the history of Blank- 
h amp ton was closed forever. 

The next question which troubled the good people 
of Blankhampton and indeed of Blankshire, was, 
who would be appointed to the Bishopric ? The 
Conservatives were in power, so that probably the 
new Bishop would be a man of good family ; it was 
equally probable that he would be a man of some- 
what evangelical principles, to which Blankshire 
people greatly objected, although the late Bishop 
had been distinctly of a low church turn. Still, 
they were not so anxious on that score as they were 
that their new spiritual lord should be a man of 
good family. They knew what they wanted, and 
they were not slow to express the same, although, 
it is true, they only expressed it to one another, 
which was not likely to make much difference to 
the eventual disposal of the See. They also knew 
what they did not want ; and one of their desires 
was, that they should not have a school-master for 
their Bishop, although the predecessor of the dead 
Prelate had been a school-master in his time and 
had been universally beloved and revered by* all 
classes of the community within his See. 

Still, since those days, society had very much 
changed. Blankhampton itself had grown from a 
dull aristocratic Cathedral city, with one cavalry 
regiment quartered in its barracks and the little 


4 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP, 


gatliering of good class men who took up their 
quarters there during the winter months for the 
hunting, to a big, bustling, rather frivolous place, 
whose Cathedral set had been utterly swamped by 
the gayer, livelier and more worldly society which 
had gathered itself about the now very large mili- 
tary garrison. This part of Blankhampton wanted 
what it called a real swagger Bishop,” and a pro- 
moted head-master from one of the public schools 
did not exactly fulfil their ideas of this somewhat 
anomalous being. 

However, in due course of time, the doubts and 
fears of all sections -of the town were put finally at 
rest, for it became known that the Prime Minister 
had offered the Bishopric of Blankhampton to a 
London clergyman, by whom it had been accepted. 
The news was for several days the one topic of con- 
versation in the old city. Who was he? What 
was he like? How old was he? Was he high 
church or low? Was he married or single? Had 
he been popular in his London parish ? What had 
he done that he should be made Bishop of Blank- 
hampton ? These and many other such questions 
fluttered to and fro upon the perturbed and expec- 
tant air. 

Well, the natural curiosity was very soon satisfied. 
Within a week the Bishop-elect came down to 
look at the Palace, and although the spectacle of a 


THE NEW BISHOP. 


5 


clergyman walking quietly down the street by him- 
self, is not one of a very unusual character, some 
instinct or other seemed to tell every person whom 
he met that this was no other than the new Bishop. 
He was not, as yet, wearing Bishop’s clothing — for 
the very good reason that his tailor had not yet 
sent home the garments for which he had been 
measured some days previously — but every man 
woman and child in Blankliarnpton who had chanced 
to set eyes upon him, knew that this was their new 
spiritual head. 

In person, the Beverend Archibald Hetherby was 
a complete surprise to the entire population. The 
majority of them had expected that he would be a 
grave, somewhat austere, middle-aged man, grizzly 
and unkempt as to his hair, portly in person, and 
wearing either pince-nez or spectacles. lie was, 
however, totally different to this. Imagine a man 
of forty, big, strong, athletic and alert, with a quick, 
clean gait and a keen, interested, everyday sort of 
manner. He was fair of complexion, was clean 
shaven — and his thick, light-brown hair was cut as 
closely as any soldier’s up at the barracks. His 
eyes were very blue and looked at you in a straight 
and frank manner. For the rest, his nose was 
straight, his mouth pleasant enough, and his chin 
firm and square, with a cleft in the middle of 
it. 


6 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


The new Bishop had come on the previous even- 
ing to the Station Hotel, and had put up there in a 
simple and unostentatious manner. Having break- 
fasted in the Cojffee Boom and leisurely looked over,^ 
the London papers, he got up, flicked the crumbs 
off his coat, smoothed his tall hat round with his 
sleeve, like any other man, and quietly sallied forth 
into the fresh and pleasant morning. Of course, to 
a man accustomed to the bustle of a busy London 
parish, Blankhampton seemed almost oppressively 
quiet and old-fashioned, but he sauntered up St. 
Thomas's Street, taking notes of houses and shops 
and people, and before ever he reached the Cathe- 
dral, had made up his mind that it was the very 
place for him. 

How the shops in Blankhampton are remarkably 
good, inflnitely better than you will And in most 
provincial towns, taking exception always to the 
two delightful watering-places, Brighton and Scar- 
borough. There is one big bookseller’s shop in St. 
Thomas’s Street at Blankhampton, which seems 
almost always to arrest the attention of the passer- 
by, and the Bishop-elect proved no exception to the 
general rule. He pulled up short at the sight of a 
battle picture of Lady Butler’s and stood looking at 
it for some minutes, a marked and noticeable figure 
on the wide pavement, and at least a dozen people 
passing by said to one another, “ That must be the 


THE NEW BISHOP. 


7 


new Bishop,” although perhaps one would not ex- * 
pect to see a bishop looking into a shop window like ! 
anj ordinary person. 

Oh, no,” said one girl to another, “ that’s not 
the new Bishop — he’s too young.” 

‘‘I’m sure it is,” answered the one who had 
spoken first, “ I feel certain of it. Let us stop and 
look into this window.” 

How the window adjoining the bookseller’s shop 
happened to be a gunsmith’s, so was scarcely as 
appropriate for two smart young girls to stop at as 
the bookseller’s window was for the Bishop. How- 
ever, that is neither here nor there. They stood 
looking in at six-shooters and the latest thing in 
breech-loaders, while the stranger passed from the 
window in which Lady Butler’s “ Qnatre Bras ” was 
flanked by beautifully bound editions of the poets, 
to the other one where the photographs of the late 
Prelate were displayed, side by side with the last 
Society beauty, and the last notoriety in the way of 
skirt-dancing. 

“I say,” said one of the girls to the other, “but 
isn’t he splendid? Fancy his stopping to look at 
those photographs, too ; that doesn’t look as if he 
was over and above goody-goody, does it ? ” 

“ Oh, he is not looking at them, he is looking at 
the poor old Bishop ! ” said the other girl. 

“Yes, he is,” persisted the first speaker, “I no- 


8 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP, 


ticed that all the skirt-dancers were up at this end ; 
see, he’s looking at them now.” 

“I wonder whether he is married?” said the 
second girl. 

“Married ? Yes,” answered the other, “ and got 
half a dozen children at home. Of course he’s mar- 
ried — sure to be.” 

“Well, I don’t know — he doesn’t look married to 
me,” said her companion. 

Well, the new Bishop, having had a good look at 
the photographs, passed on his way up the street 
toward the Cathedral. It certainly had, at that 
moment, crossed his mind that it was an odd thing 
for two pretty young girls to he taking such interest 
in a gunsmith’s window, but imagining that in his 
ordinary parson’s clothes nobody would spot him — 
yes, I know that “ spot ” is slang, but the Bishop 
did say “ spot ” in his own mind, and, as a humble 
but faithful chronicler, I wish to present this man 
to my readers as he really was, and not, in any 
sense, as the pompous ass a typical bishop is sup- 
posed to be — it never occuri-ed to him that the gun- 
smith’s window was but an excuse for them to get 
a good look at himself. So he sauntered happily 
on, followed at a little distance by the two girls. 

His way led him to the Cathedral, a glorious fane 
of nearly pure Norman architecture, always affec- 
tionately held up by Blankhampton folk as the most 


THE NEW BISHOP. 


9 


perfect Temple of God in the wide world and always 
familiarly called by them — “ the Parish.” The bells 
were just ringing for morning service and, wdjen he 
passed under the great organ screen into the choir, 
he was seen and taken possession of by a soft-voiced, 
flat-footed verger, who never suspected for a mo- 
ment that this was the new Bishop. Probably he 
was the only person in Blankhampton, who did not 
suspect his real condition ; but, as a rule, cathedral 
vergers do not take much account of clergymen, 
unless they happen to be wearing gaiters. His 
cloth, however, secured him a seat in the stalls, not 
very far from the Dean’s seat, and when the Dean 
himself came in, he guessed, in a moment, who the 
tall fair-faced stranger was, and at the conclusion of 
the short service, sent his own verger to make sure 
wdiether his suspicion was correct or not and, if it 
was, to beg the stranger to join him in the vestry. 

From that moment, the new Bishop’s incognito 
came to an end ; he was the lion of the hour ; he 
was carried off to the Deanery to lunch, and he 
was driven over in the Dean’s carriage to see the 
Palace ; in short, he was completely taken in hand 
and so many of his future flock were presented to 
him that he was almost bewildered. 

After this, the good people of Blankhampton very 
soon learned all that there was to learn about their 
new spiritual head. They learned first of all that 


10 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


the Netherbys were one of the oldest families that 
have ever flourished in the good old l^orth Country, 
and that the Reverend Archibald of that name was 
the head of the family, being the eldest son of the 
oldest branch of the house ; that he had been edu- 
cated at Eton and Oxford, where he had done fairly 
well but not brilliantly ; that he was nearly forty- 
one years of age, and had an unsurpassable record 
for dogged hard work, and that he was possessed of 
the quality of shrewd common-sense to a degree 
which almost amounted to brilliance. They learned 
that as vicar of one of the busiest and most impor- 
tant parishes in London, he had fllled his church 
Sunday after Sunday, with a crowd of people, all 
eager and anxious to learn, although it was gener- 
ally acknowledged that his sermons read infinite- 
ly better than they preached ; indeed, to tell the 
truth, it was generally admitted that the new 
Bishop of Blankhampton “ could not preach a bit.” 
They learned also, that in administrative power he 
was unequalled, that his net-work of parish organi- 
zation had been the most complete and the most 
useful that had ever been known in that parish be- 
fore, that he had a perfect genius for administra- 
tion, an indomitable will, a simple unostentatious 
manner, an exceedingly kind heart, and, on occa- 
sion, the gay spirits of a boy. The good people of 
Blankhampton learned also that the inhabitants of 


THE NEW BISHOP. 


11 


liis old parish were heart-broken at his promotion, 
although they owned that it was no more than his 
due that he should wear the lawn sleeves of a 
bishop and fill one of the highest dignities of the 
Cliurch ; still that they were parting with him with 
infinite regret and tears of sorrow, and looked for- 
ward to the future with apprehension and almost 
with despair. They learned that his servants were 
coming with him in a body, and that the Palace 
was to be done up and made fit for occupation by a 
local firm. And they also discovered that Archi- 
bald Netherby, Bishop-elect of Blankhampton, was 
not married. 


CHAPTEE II. 


DAWN. 

“ O, that a man might know 

The end of this day’s business ere it come ! 

But it sufficeth that the day will end, 

And then the end is known.” 

—Julius Ca:sar. 

“ Rachel was beautiful and well favored.” 

— Genesis. 

In due course of time, the new Bisliop was conse- 
crated in Blankliampton Catliedral and duly took up 
his abode at Blankliampton Palace. The firm, who 
had received the commission to do up and refurnish 
that charming old mansion, were so inordinately 
proud of the order that, when their task was accom- 
plished, they took the liberty of giving a sort of 
private view of the grand old house ; and very many 
of the townspeople, most of those indeed who hap- 
pened to be customers of the firm, took the oppor- 
tunity of inspecting the work. 

All sorts and conditions of men and women drove 
or walked out to the rambling but stately mansion, 


DAWir. 


13 


and went into raptures over the size of the rooms, 
the beauty of the gardens, the excellent accommo- 
dation in the stables, and the good taste of the new 
fittings and decorations. 

“ It is most extraordinary,” said one lady to 
another, “ that a bachelor should make himself a 
home like this.” 

“ Perhaps he won’t be a bachelor long,” returned 
the other, trying to calculate mentally how a certain 
cosey-corner of white and pale blue would suit her 
own drawing-room, “ perhaps he won’t be a bache- 
lor long. I say, Maria, don’t you like that cosey- 
corner ? ” 

I like it said Maria, with a gush of feel- 

ing. 

Maria was a sweet young thing “ about ” forty, and 
had a gentle vision in her mind, at that moment, of 
herself as mistress of that beautiful old palace, of 
herself moving to and fro in the spacious rooms, of 
herself walking through life beside the new Bishop. 
It was a mere vision, it was quite innocent, it was 
almost as impossible as it was unlikely of fulfilment ; 
but Maria was young in mind and ambitious in 
thought, and her little dream hurt nobody, not even 
herself. She had not often an opportunity of seeing 
the interior of a palace, and she was ready to take 
every stick and stone of it to her metaphorical bosom. 
Maria’s friend, however, was more practical. 


14 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


“I want something new in my drawing-room/’ 
she said, reflectively, “ and Robert has promised I 
shall have carte hlanche. I’ve waited ten years to 
have it done np, you know, and the other day he 
told me I could have it done when I liked, and I 
need not stint myself as to the cost of it. I’ve a 
good mind to have a corner like that one — it would 
be out of the common, wouldn’t it ? ” 

Yes,” sighed Maria, “ it would be out of the 
common, that’s true. Everything here is out of the 
common.” 

“Well, to my mind,” said Maria’s friend, “it all 
looks a little new. Of course, there’s the wonderful 
old oak furniture in the dining-room, and the large 
settees in this room and the pictures and the chapel- 
furnishings and the great chests in the hall, they 
were all here before and are heirlooms, so to speak ; 
but to me, it all looks as if it wanted living in.” 

“ It wants a wife,” said Maria, with a sigh. 

That was exactly what all Blankhampton said, 
nay more, it was what all Blankshire said, that the 
Bishop’s Palace had need most of anything of a 
mistress. 

The Bishop himself, however, when he came to 
take possession, seemed very well satisfled to do 
without that luxury. He brought with him a few 
favorite pieces of furniture and a large quantity of 
pictures and bric-d hrac of all kinds, and, in an in- 


DAWN. 


15 


credibly short time, he had settled down and made 
himself thoroughly at home in the big Palace. 

But it must not be imagined that such a man had 
lived for nearly forty-one years in the world, with- 
out having the idea of marriage suggested to him 
many times. He was, unlike most bishops, a very 
rich man independently of his office, and, on many 
occasions, he had had hints thrown out to him that 
it was a thousand pities he did not marry. 

“ I look upon you, my dear Archie Hetherby,” 
said an old friend, a very great lady, to him one" 
day, when dining at his house in London, “ I look 
upon you as a good husband wasted. Why, my 
dear boy, with a house like this, with an income like 
yours, with your position and — I don’t want to 
flatter you, Archie — but, with your looks, why you 
should enjoy it all by yourself, I cannot imagine. 
Why don’t you marry ? ” 

It is true that the big parson turned a little red 
and showed some signs of confusion. 

‘‘My dear friend,” he said, with an effort to speak 
lightly, “I have not time to think of these things. 
Perhaps some day I shall And myself with more 
leisure.” 

“ Leisure,” echoed the lady ; “ oh, nonsense, you 
want very little leisure to get married. It is the 
will you want, Archie, not the leisure.” 

However, be that as it may, Archibald Hetherby 


16 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP, 


went down to Blanksliire without having changed 
his state, and he took up his abode in the big palace 
and flung himself heart and soul into the many and 
arduous duties of his office, and had apparently, no 
intention whatever of giving that same palace a 
mistress. 

Blankhampton, not to say Blanksliire, took it 
into its general head that the new Bishop wanted 
encouragement. That was the favorite formula of 
the ladies in that part of the world, when a man 
did not easily surrender himself to the toils of the 
match-maker ; and of a surety, tlie encouragement 
that the new Bishop received was enough to have 
tempted any man at least to consider the question. 
But the Bishop did not seem even to see the little 
snares that were spread out for his delectation ; he 
went serenely on his way, making pilgrimage after 
pilgrimage into the uttermost corners of the earth 
— or if not into the uttermost corners of the earth, 
certainly into the uttermost corners of his diocese ; 
he started just such a wonderful net-work of organi- 
zation from one end of it to the other, as he had 
found of such good effect in liis London parish ; he 
infected all the young ladies with a desire to do 
parish work, and he infected all the young men 
with an enthusiasm for helping their less fortunate 
brethren ; he made himself personally acquainted 
with every clergyman in his See ; he preached at 


DAWN. 


17 


every church in Blankshire ; in short, he began like 
the proverbial new broom, and he showed not the 
smallest sign of turning into an old one. But he 
did not get married. 

The winter passed away and bright summer came 
in its stead. The new Bishop proved himself as 
good at tennis and at cricket as he had proved 
himself to be full of energy in his work ; but even 
tennis did not help matters on toward providing 
the Palace with a mistress. He was very popular, 
he was greatly admired, and he was a pattern to all 
his clergy; but he remained a bachelor. He re- 
ceived quite ten times as many invitations as he 
could possibly accept ; everybody in the county said 
that he was the best fellow, the finest all-round 
worker, and the kindest soul that they had ever 
met. And they agreed, one and all, that, although 
the matter of his sermons was exceeding good, yet 
his manner of delivering them was the one blot and 
blemish upon his otherwise beautiful presence. 

For a wonder the new Bishop was on excellent 
terms with the Dean. It does not always follow. 
In Blankhampton, at least, the Deanery and the 
Palace had never been on really good terms, except- 
ing during a very short period after the present 
Dean had succeeded to the Deanery. It is the case 
with many Deaneries and Bishoprics. In Blank- 
hampton, for instance, up to the time of Archibald 


18 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


Netlierby’s appointment, the relations between the 
two spiritual heads of the Church had been more 
than usually strained. But at the end of six 
months the Dean and the Bishop were still great 
friends and on the best of terms with each other, 
nor did there seem to be any likelihood of any dis- 
agreement arising between them. 

One of their most pleasant arrangements was 
that the Bishop should preach as often as could be 
arranged in his Cathedral Church. On Sunday 
mornings, of course, the Pi-ebends took their turn 
at preaching ; but there were several of those who 
were too old to take the journey on fixed days or 
to make the effort to preach in so large an edifice. 
There were also a few off days, when no one was 
specially appointed to fill the pulpit. And there 
were some half-dozen days in the year, when the 
late Bishop had been set down as preacher, occasions 
of which he had frequently not taken advantage, so 
that Blankhampton people heard him but seldom. 
There were also a good many days when the Dean 
was the preacher, and a very good preacher too, so 
that by taking a fair share of these, and an equally 
fair share of the evening services, when the choice 
of the preacher was solely at the discretion of the 
Dean, the new Bishop was enabled to hold forth at 
the Parish, quite as often as his duties in other 
directions would admit of. 


DAWN, 


19 


In one thing Dr. ISTetherby made a great change 
from the ways of his predecessor ; for, whereas tliat 
dignitary had on all days when he was not preach- 
ing at some church in his See, been in the habit 
of attending divine service in the quiet country 
church adjoining his palace, the new Bishop, at all 
such times, attended the services in the beautiful 
old Cathedral. 

He happened to be preaching there one Sunday 
morning, on a lovely day in July, when the sun was 
streaming through the glorious old windows, cast- 
ing colored rays of light upon the richly carved oak 
below ; and when the choir was full to overflowing, 
so that the gay dresses of the women and the rich 
uniforms of the officers present, made the sombre 
old building seem like a garden in summer bloom. 
The Bishop, looking as imposing as any in his satin 
robes, lawn sleeves, and Doctor’s hood, joined in 
the service, without so much as turning his eyes to 
right or to left ; but, when he stood up to preach 
and grew interested in his subject, he began un- 
consciously and instinctively to pick out of the sea 
of faces, the one or two which were most in accord 
with his own feelings. 

I think that there are but few preachers, espe- 
cially those who are very much in earnest, who do 
not feel this power of attraction more or less. If a 
man can single out but one face that is earnest or 


20 


THE SOUL OF TEE BISHOP. 


interested, whose soul is unmistakably in touch with 
his own by the medium o£ ears and eyes and mouth, 
that man has a better chance of preaching a sermon 
that will touch all who hear it, than if he preaches 
to nothing more impressionable than a bit of carv- 
ing or a distant aisle. On that particular occasion, 
when there was everything to arouse a feeling of 
fervor in the hearts of both preacher and people — 
glorious sunshine, rich and stately surroundings, en- 
trancing music, and almost perfect singing — the 
Bishop of Blankhampton found his attention grad- 
ually ri vetting itself upon one of the faces just 
across the choir, framed as in a shrine of dark oak. 

It was a woman’s face, of course — well, a wmman 
scarcely past early girlhood. He had remarkably 
good eyesight, but he scarcely noticed or indeed 
thought about the actual details of the face. He 
could not have told precisely what the lady was like, 
excepting that she was young, and that she was 
listening to him with strained and eager attention, 
the eagerness of a soul seeking for something. Yet, 
although he could hardly have said whether her hair 
was dark or light, whether her eyes were brown or 
blue, whether her features wei*e regular or not, j^et 
her face had impressed itself upon his mind and he 
knew that he would know her again, anywhere and 
at any time. After the service was over, he went, 
as was his almost invariable custom, to lunch at the 


DAWN. 


21 


Deanery, but he had no opportunity of even in- 
quiring wlio this lady might be. 

July slipped over, as brilliant summer days have 
a way of doing, but, although the Bishop was twice 
present at the Parish during the month, he did not 
see that face again. The autumn came on, during 
which he took a brief holiday, going abroad for a 
change. IsTot a long holiday, because bishops, es- 
pecially when they have not been very long in their 
dioceses, cannot afford to lift their hand from the 
machinery which they have set in motion and but 
barely established. Still, the three weeks in which 
he indulged himself served to give him complete 
change from his busy life, and he came back like a 
giant refreshed with sleep and once more took up 
the many threads of his calling. 

It happened toward the middle of November, 
that the Bishop went to dine at one of the largest 
houses in the neighborhood of Blankhampton, that 
of Sir Thomas Yivian. The party was a very large 
one, a gathering of important people, in addition to 
a large house^party. The Bishop took his hostess 
in to dinner and sat with her at the top of a long 
table. Now, in some respects. Lady Vivian was an 
old-fashioned woman — a very great lady, mind you, 
a woman strong enough in her position to disregard 
many fashions, which mondaines look upon as 
essential. At that time, table decorations were all 


22 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


the flattest of the flat, there were even some ardent 
reformers, who thought it so dreadful not to he able 
to see your opposite neighbors, that instead of 
decking their dinner-tables with vases and epergnes 
they merely strewed the table-cloth with rose-leaves, 
violets, daffodils or any such simple flowers, so that 
the whole effect should be flat and yet be rich in 
coloring. Lady Yivian, however, would have none 
of these modern caprices for the dinner-table at 
Ingleby. The great gold centre-piece which had 
been presented to herself and her husband at the 
time of their marriage, was an everlasting joy to her 
soul and, on all great occasions, it graced the centre 
of the long table, and was graced in turn by the most 
exquisite exotics and many fronds of delicate fern. 

Lady Yivian had never been able to see the force 
of putting her beautiful centre-piece away into ob- 
scui’ity and placing her flowers and ferns upon the 
table-cloth itself. Moreover, at the time of their 
silver wedding, their tenantry and employes had 
supplemented the original gift by the addition of 
two beautiful flve-branched candelabra to match it. 
She had also other beautiful gold plate, with which 
Sir Thomas had enriched their collection from time 
to time ; and ti'uly, when the Ingleby dinner-table 
was set out for a banquet, there was no mistaking 
the display for ordinary pot-luck. 

On this occasion, having as guests the Bishop and 


DAWN. 


23 


a great many other important people, Lady Yivian 
had arranged her table even more elaborately than 
usual and, in consequence, those who sat round it 
were not able to see every other person present, an 
arrangement which, to my mind, is usually a very 
advantageous one. 

The fourth course was being handed round, when 
something happened, something very unusual for 
the Bishop, so that his heart seemed suddenly to 
stand still within him ; a punier man would hardly 
have felt the shock so great, but his heart fairly 
jumped and then seemed to stand still for an almost 
sickening length of time, for he suddenly became 
aware that, at the other end of the table, sat the 
lady whom he had seen that bright July morning in 
the choir of the Parish. It was only a fleeting 
glimpse that he caught of her, for unconscious of 
the interest that she was exciting, the young lady 
turned her head again to speak to her neighbor 
and a tall arrangement of flowers shut her out of 
his sight. 

He turned presently, that is to say when he felt 
he had once more got command of his voice and 
lips, to his hostess, saying, “ Who is the young lady 
in the white dress, at the other end of the table? ” ^ 

Lady Vivian looked up. “ No, not that side,” said 
the Bishop, “ on the other side. I think she is third 
from the end.” 


24 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


“ That — oh, that is Miss Constable,” Lady Yivian 
answered, “ Sir Edward Constable’s only child, you 
know.” 

“ Oh, really,” said the Bishop, in as indifferent a 
tone as he could put on. 

“We think her exceedingly handsome,” said Lady 
Yivian, scenting a possible match, which would 
help to keep up the reputation of Ingleby as a gar- 
den of happiness wherein many lonely wandering 
souls might chance to light upon their own particu- 
lar affinities. 

“ Yery handsome,” said the Bishop, but without 
any sign of enthusiasm. 

“ She sings very well,” Lady Yivian went on aim- 
lessly. 

“ Keally ! How very charming,” was his com- 
ment. 

“ Lady Constable died about six years ago. Sir 
Edward was really quite young — you see, he is 
nearly opposite to his daughter, next to the lady in 
black velvet — we quite thought he would have mar- 
ried again, but I suppose Cecil makes him too happy 
even to think of it. Of course, she was very 370ung 
when her mother died — not eighteen, if I remem- 
ber rightly.” 

The Bishop made a rapid mental calculation — 
eighteen and six make twenty-four — and he was 
already turned forty-one. His heart sank again. 


DAWir. 


25 


Yes, it was a difference, a great difference, and 
probably one that would form an insurmountable 
barrier from her point of view. “But there,” his 
thoughts ran, “ how foolish to even think of such a 
thing — why, this young lady might be engaged, for 
anything he knew to the contrary. She might be — 
oh, it was ridiculous, it was perfectly useless even to 
think about it.” 

Still, although it was no use thinking of a con- 
tingency which might be as impossible as improb- 
able, it must be confessed that his blue eyes wan- 
dered pretty often to that opening in the mass of 
flowers, through which he had already caught a 
glimpse of the face which had been haunting him 
more or less, ever since one bright Sunday morning 
during the previous July. 

But Lady Yivian — her mind thus started off in 
the direction of match-making — which was her 
favorite pursuit and which she followed always in 
such an exceedingly delicate and nice-minded man- 
ner, that she was almost able to persuade even her- 
self that she had never done anything to bring 
about a single marriage in her life — began, in a 
very roundabout way, to question the Bishop about 
his daily life. 

“ Tell me, my dear Bishop,” she said, after 
they had discussed their autumn holidays and 
various other unimportant topics, “ tell me how 


26 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


do yon like Blaiikshire now you are really settled 
here ? ” 

“ I like it immensel}^” he replied, “ I have never 
been so happy or felt so thoroughly satisfied with 
iny work in iny life. But it is not easy to be a 
bishop, Lady Yivian — I can’t think how old men 
do it.” 

‘‘ Ah, well,” she said indulgently, “ they have 
never got their dioceses into such good order, that 
things will work without much trouble, or else they 
don’t reform everything as you are doing. Of 
course, in a few years’ time, you won’t need to 
work as you do now.” 

I don’t know,” he murmured doubtfully, I 
don’t know.” 

“ But, tell me,’’ she went on, bringing him back 
to her original point again, “ do you still like the 
Palace ? ” 

“ Immensely,” he answered, “ it is a delightful 
house to live in ; there’s plenty of room in it.” 

“Yes, plenty of room — that goes without saying,” 
she assented blandly. “ But, tell me. Bishop, don’t 
you feel sometimes a little lonely in that great 
place, all by yourself ? ” 

“Dear lady,” he answered, “I never have time 
to feel lonely ; I always have too much to do.” 

“ I have no doubt. But do you, for instance, 
breakfast alone in that big dining-hall ? ” 


DAWir. 


27 


Oh, no,” he answered, “ I — I always have my 
meals when I am alone in the little ante-room, 
which is quite big enough for one person. Oh, 
no, I never think of taking a meal by myself in 
the big dining-room. Wliy,” with a laugh, “I 
should think the draughts would blow me out of 
it.” 

“I am sure it must be lonely for you any way,” 
Lady Yivian returned. ‘‘ Do you know I have often 
thouglit of you and wondered, when Sir Thomas 
and I have been alone and we have felt almost lost 
in this big room, what you were feeling like in that 
huge dining-hall at the Palace. Somehow, I am 
glad you don’t sit there alone,” she added. 

“ Lady Yivian,” he said with a laugh, “ I take 
very good care of myself. Don’t you think,” laugh- 
insc a^ain, “ that I look as if I did ? ” 

‘‘ Well, yes. But still, I think you must find it 
very lonely, there’s such a sense of space at the 
Palace — of course, you cannot always have a party, 
or even one or two house-guests, can you ? I rather 
wonder you don’t, as you are not married, have 
some of your own people to live with you.” 

“ No, thank you,” said the Bishop with decision, 
“no, thank you. I had my sister living with me 
seven years ago — my last unmarried sister — and, 
mercifully, she got married. I would not for the 
world have stopped a happy marriage for selfish 


28 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


reasons.” Just then he caught another glimpse of 
Miss Constable, who was talking to her neighbor 
on the hand nearest to them. “ My sister manied 
very happily, Lady Yivian,” he went on, when the 
flowers had hidden the vision again, “ and she is 
much better off with a husband than she was with 
me. She did not exactly take interest in what 
interested me. I never could get her to see that 
it was my pleasure, as well as my duty, to make 
myself something more than a mere teacher to my 
parishioners. She didn’t like my having young 
men in the evening ; she said that they were out 
of her line. I dare say they were ; for the most 
part, they w^ere out of mine, but I was very anxious 
to make the two lines meet if I could.” 

‘‘ I can quite understand your sister,” said Lady 
Yivian quietly. 

“ Yes, yes, I know. I was sorry for her in some 
ways, because, you see, I could not do with junket- 
ings going on when I was giving all my mind to a 
sermon, and when she had her ‘ At Home ’ days, I 
generally had a Mothers’ Meeting or a parish-tea or 
an engagement of some kind and I was seldom or 
never able to show at them. So that really, al- 
though it is a little lonely at the Palace, I don’t 
mind it much ; when you are lonely, necessarily 
you don’t annoy anybody else, do- you ? I am afraid 
that my relations would be very unhappy if they 


DAWK 


29 


were doomed to live with me always — and I am 
sure I should,” he added, in an undertone. 

Well, although this was not perhaps a very 
promising beginning. Lady Yivian took possession 
of him as soon as he entered the drawing-room and 
promptly made him known to her young friend and 
neighbor. Miss Cecil Constable. 

“ I want you, my dear,” she said to her, in her 
kindest tones, “ I want you to know our new 
Bishop, whom I think you have not yet met, and 
to amuse him for a little while.” Then, as the 
Bishop bowed, she quietly sailed away and consid- 
erately turned her back upon the pair, so that they 
might have a fair chance of doing what she consid- 
ered their obvious duty toward one another and 
toward her, their hostess. 


CHAPTER III. 


WHAT WILL THE STORY OF THESE TWO BE ? 

“ The Koad of Love is that which has no beginning nor end ; 
take heed to thyself, man, ere thou place foot on it.’* 

“ To everything there is a season ... a time to love.’* 

— Ecclesiastes. 

The Bishop sat down on the wide lounge beside 
Miss Constable. 

“ I am very charmed to meet you,” he said, in 
his most pleasant tones, “ but I rather wonder that 
we have not met before, because I have been a long 
time in Blankshire now and fancied that I had met 
everybody.” 

She looked up smilingly. 

“ You would have met us,” she answered, “ but 
we have been away, my father and I, for a long 
time. We spent last winter abroad and although 
we were here for a little time in the summer, just 
when I believe you were away we went away again 
and have only just returned.” 

“ I hope you did not go on the score of health,” 
he said. 


WHAT WILL THE STORY OF THESE TWO BE? 31 

“ITo, not exactly,” she answered. “My father 
got it into his liead that he wanted a long change 
and that he was getting too old to hunt — so we went 
to Italy. He did not care much for Italy and he 
missed his hunting dreadfully ; indeed he declared 
that his rheumatism was very little better; so this 
year we tried the experiment of going to Aix and 
then to the Engadine, by way of building him up to 
get tlirough a winter in the ordinary English way. 
He declares,” smiling again, “ that the plan is much 
the better one and that his rheumatism is not half 
so troublesome as it used to be. But, of course, we 
are only at the beginning of the winter yet and I do 
not know what he will feel like in three or four 
months’ time.” 

“But he will have had his hunting,” said the 
Bishop. 

“ Yes, that is what he says. I suppose, if he gets 
it very badly, we shall have to go away again, but 
he doesn’t care about Continental life, nor do I, so 
that until he is obliged to move I am very happy 
where I am.” 

“ You hunt too ? ” the Bishop asked. 

“ ^lot very much — I do sometimes, but I am not 
an enthusiast.” 

They sat talking there for a long time, the Bishop 
gradually drawing out of her much information con- 
cerning her daily life, her tastes, her pursuits, and 


32 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


her ambitions ; but lie saw no trace of the eagerness, 
which he had noticed the first time that he had seen 
her in the Choir of the Cathedral. He had, of 
course, a very good opportunity of seeing her well, 
of noting every detail of face and figure ; she was 
barely of the middle height and was excessively 
handsome ; she was also a complete contrast to the 
Bishop himself. Her hair was dark and abundant 
and of that peculiar shining quality which knows 
not the sear of the curling irons ; it was neither 
dragged away from her forehead nor did it hang 
over her eyes in a bush, but it lay in soft rings on 
her brow, as you sometimes see the hair of a little 
child do but seldom that of a grown person. Her 
eyes were dark, or rather they were gray eyes, put 
in with a dirty finger,” the lashes being as black 
as night. The eyebrows were fine and widely set, 
the features straight, though the nose had a charac- 
teristic turn at the end, which relieved its otherwise 
severe lines, the mouth was neither too large nor too 
small, the lips such as form themselves into the 
most charming curves, and the teeth were white as 
pearls. For the rest, her figure was good, her 
throat just long enough, her complexion one of milk 
and roses. In manner she was dignified and very 
self-possessed, without having the slightest sign of 
self-consciousness. She had a sweet voice, an abso- 
lutely clear enunciation, and a delightful smile, and 


WHAT WILL THE STORY OF THESE TWO BE? 33 


I may just as well own up frankly from the begin- 
ning, the Bishop was already madly in love with her. 

A few days later, Sir Edward Constable called 
upon him, and within a week he was invited to dine 
at Baburn. Being a dinner-party given in his 
honor, he naturally took in the young hostess, who 
interested him more and more with ever}^ word that 
she uttered, with every glance that she gave him. 

It is doubtful whether he would, in the ordinary 
course of events, have become so intimate as he 
subsequently did with Sir Edward Constable. On 
Sir Edward’s side, it was not wonderful that he 
should conceive a warmth of friendship, which 
might almost be described as devotion, for this 
mental, moral, and physical, Anak of a Churchman, 
the man who had during his whole life possessed 
the power of drawing all sorts and conditions of 
men under the sway of his personal strength and 
influence. Sir Edward, on the other hand, was a 
man of a distinctly commonplace order. An aris- 
tocrat, for the Constables had been Constables of 
Baburn since the time of Henry YL, indeed from 
that time until the present, in an unbroken line 
from father to son. It had been at the time of 
Cecil’s birth and in her childhood, when there 
seined to be no chance of an heir following her, 
somewhat of a trouble to Sir Edward that his 
daughter had been a daughter, but to that he had 
3 


34 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


long ago grown accustomed and would not now 
have changed his girl for a dozen sons. With him, 
the lords of the soil were not only the salt of the 
earth but they were also the backbone of the 
kingdom. He was veiy good to his people, in 
a free and easy, yet lordly fashion, but, wdth 
him. Constable of Raburn was omnipotent in all 
worldly affairs, within a certain radius of Raburn 
itself. 

The plan of his life was to hunt six days a week, 
if it were possible, and to go to Church on Sunday, 
be it rain or shine. At his parish church, he always 
read the responses out very loud, a word or so in 
front of the congregation — he quite believed it to 
be his duty to do so, in order to set his people a 
good example and to let those more lowly and 
ignorant than himself see that he really did take a 
personal interest in the worship of Almighty God. 
Invariably also, he w’ent to sleep during the sermon, 
although if taxed with doing so, he would have 
stoutly denied the imputation. With the hundred 
and one schemes, which such men as Blankhamp- 
ton’s new Bishop draw out with such loving care, 
for the benefit of humanity. Sir Edward Constable 
had absolutely no sympathy whatever. Religion 
with him was a decent and respectable thing to 
encourage. He held that all landowners, great and 
small, should, to a certain extent, provide for the 


WHAT WILL THE STORY OF THESE TWO BE? 35 


welfare of those, who were, in a manner, dependent 
upon them. He subscribed largely to the county 
hospital, and to the county asylum. He gave great 
doles of beef, and coals, and flannels at Christmas- 
time and none of his laborers were turned off durins: 
the winter ; but there his duty to humanity, as he 
conceived it, stopped. With evening classes, night 
schools, working men’s clubs, institutes, polytech- 
nics and the like, he was utterly at variance. He 
saw no sense in attempts to elevate the masses, for 
with him, gentry were gentry and working-people 
were working-people, and he believed, with a faith 
as childlike as it was implicit, in tlie wisdom of the 
common phrasing of tliat old exhortation, ‘‘ to do 
my duty in that state of life, unto which it shall 
please God to call me ” — and for him it read “ unto 
which it has pleased God to call me.” 

“I like him,” he said, speaking of the Bishop 
one day to a brother squire, “ he’s the sort of man 
one would like to have for one’s vicar. He’s toler- 
ant and — well, there’s no cant about him. He isn’t 
one of yonr long-faced, psalm-singing devils, who 
would rope you as soon as look at you ; he’s a man^ 
and I like a man— I always did. Yes — yes, he’s a 
good fellow all round.” 

To his daughter, however. Sir Edward expressed 
himself somewhat differently. 

“ My dear,” he said to her, the morning after the 


36 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP, 


Bishop had dined there for the tliii d time, “ I hope 
yon like him.” 

“Like whom, Father? ” she asked. 

“ Wliy the Bishop, of course.” 

“ Yes, I think he is very nice,” she replied, in a 
guarded tone. 

“ Nice ! I don’t call nice the word for a man like 
that. He’s a man, my dear, a man after my own 
heart, a credit to his cloth, in fact, rather more than 
that, he is an ornament to it. He is a credit to his 
country, and, still better, he is a credit to his order. 
Now, last night, he said to me, before we came into 
the drawing-room, in speaking of an egregious 
blunder that has been made by some parson over 
Warrington way, ‘Well, that is where I think a 
man of good position makes such a mistake, he uses 
those of a less good social standing than himself to 
do work that requires the hand and mind of a gen- 
tleman to carry it through properly. It’s the 
greatest mistake in the world. I always take care 
to get my work done for me by men as good as my- 
self.’ Now,” said Sir Edward, standing up in front 
of the fire with his hands tlirust deep down in his 
pockets, “ now, that’s what I call a sensible thing 
for a man to say. Most men who have to do with 
the Church go snivelling along on the equality busi- 
ness, cramming down one’s throat that we are all 
alike in the sight of God, and that one man is as 


WHAT WILL THE STORY OF THESE TWO BE? 37 

'good as another, and that Jack will sit as high or 
liiglier than his master in the Kingdom of Heaven. 
Well, I daresay he will, bnt we haven’t got to the 
Kingdom of Heaven yet — and when we do get there, 
I fancy there will be a considerable change in most 
of ns. Why,” he went on scornfully, “ what would 
be the result if the Government were to pick out 
John Simpson to be Ambassador to St. Petersburg ? 
John Simpson is the best liead-groom I have ever 
had in my employment, he’s Al at his own work ; 
but, I ask you, what good would John Simpson be 
as a diplomat ? Why, about as bad as he very well 
could be. Every man to his trade, that’s what I 
say. I feel a very great admiration and a very great 
liking for the Bishop, and I hope, Cecil, my dear, 
that you will bear it in mind and show him all the 
lionor you can, when he comes here. He is a man 
whose friendship I feel very proud of having.” 

“Well, dear,” said Cecil, “I really don’t think 
you have any cause to complain on that score, for he 
lias dined here three times and has always sat next 
to me at dinner ; I dare say he was bored to death, 
though he was very polite over it. I am sure I 
think I have been tremendously civil to him.” 

“ Oh ! dear, yes. Bless my soul, child, I wasn’t 
finding fault with you — when do I ever find fault 
with you? Only you know my wdshes — ^}mu won’t 
do him too much honor to please me.” 


38 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


‘‘ Yery well, dear,” said Cecil quietly. 

Both times that he had dined at Kaburn before, 
the Bishop had called on the following day but, on 
both occasions. Miss Constable had not been at 
home. This time, however, he did not call until 
the second day, when the servant replied in the 
affirmative, in answer to his inquiry for the young 
mistress of the house, and conducted him to a cosey 
little room on the south side of the building, of 
whose existence he had not previously been made 
aware. 

Here he found Miss Constable sitting, in the soft 
lights cast by a fire and a rose-shaded lamp, singing 
softly to herself, from memory. He caught a few 
words of her song, ere the servant made her aware 
of his presence ; just the end of the refrain — 

“ What will the story of these two he ? ” 

When she realized that he w’as in the room, she 
jumped up, all in a hurry, and came to meet him. 

“ Oh, is that you. Bishop ? How glad I am not 
to have missed you again. I did not hear you come 
in, I was just singing to myself. Matthew, bring 
some tea, please,” and she came forward out of the 
corner, where the little piano stood endways against 
the wall, into the soft yet brighter circle of light 
cast by the rose-shaded lamp. “I am afraid my 


WHAT WILL THE STORY OF THESE TWO BE? 39 

father is not at home yet, he has gone to a rather 
distant meet — in fact, he had to box to get there. 
Why, how cold you are ! ” she said, as she laid her 
hand in his. 

“ Am IV’ looking down at his big hand, “ I never 
felt it. I am not much troubled with little varia- 
tions of temperature — I suppose it is rather cold 
to-day ? ” 

“ Oh, it is dreadfully cold,” she answered ; “ dread- 
fully cold. I went out this morning — I drove my- 
self into Blankhampton — and I think I got chilled. 
I was shuddering all the way home and, really, I 
did not get warm until I had made this room like 
an oven. Do you find it too hot ? I hope not.” 

‘‘ Oh, no, I think it is charming,” he replied. 
He looked at her when he might have looked at 
the room. 

Miss Constable’s color deepened a little, as 
she perceived the evident admiration in his blue 
eyes. 

“ You have not seen my little den before, have 
you ? ” she asked. 

“ 1^0 — though I should not have called it a 
‘ den,’ ” he answered. 

Then he looked at the room, than which surely 
nothing is a better guide to a woman’s character. 
Her sanctum told him, accustomed to judge by 
trifles, more of her than he had already learned 


40 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


during the half dozen times that he had been in 
her company. 

It was not one of those rooms specially designed 
for a lady’s boudoir, by an enterprising and highly 
correct firm of upholsterers — not at all. Its walls 
were of a subdued rose color — what they call “ old 
rose ” — its paint- work was a few shades deeper, and 
the prevailing tint of the draperies was of a dull, 
almost faded blue. Add to this a little piano set 
modestly in a corner, a large and roomy couch cov- 
ered with a rich material, of the same soft blue tint 
as the drapeiies, three or four deep-seated, luxuri- 
ous-looking chairs, a great white bear-skin spread 
before the fire, a great many pictures and a good 
deal of china, and there you have the portrait of a 
room which was, in the Bishop’s eyes the prettiest 
and the most comfortable in which he had ever 
found himself. 

He was very happy, for Cecil was kind and gra- 
cious to him, not at all overawed by his presence, 
as most of the young ladies with whom he came in 
contact were, but treating him quite as an equal, 
ministering to him in the daintiest way, when 
Matthew brought in a little tea-table and tray ; and 
finally sending, for his benefit, for the two greatest 
pets which she possessed, one a magnificent Angora 
cat brindled like a bull-dog, the other a small satin- 
coated, squash-faced apricot-colored pug. 


WHAT WILL THE STORY OF THESE TWO BE? 41 

‘‘Don’t saj, Bishop, that joii don’t like cats,” she 
cried, “ for Rnffie and I are tremendous friends ; are 
we not, Ruffle, mj dear ? I can liardly imagine a 
friend more faitlifiil than this beautiful person,” 
holding the cat in her arm, exactly as she would 
hold a long-clothes baby, “ excepting, perhaps, this 
little fellow here,” laying her disengaged hand on 
the png’s satin-smoothed head. 

“Miss Constable,” he said, in a perfectly grave 
voice, “ I am afraid that I must plead guilty to 
possessing a cat myself. I have had her for eight 
years and she is almost always the first person to 
greet me, when I return home, and very often the 
last to take leave of me on the doorstep. But she 
is not such a beauty as yours ; in fact, she is only 
an ordinary kind of cat, a mere come-by-chance, 
that probably nobody else would have looked at.” 

Then, when they had made still greater friends 
over the cat question, he asked her if she would do 
something for him. 

“ Why, surely,” she said, in reply. 

“ Then will you,” he said, with all his soul in his 
blue eyes, “ will you sing me the song that you 
were singing when I came in ? ” 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE COMFORTABLE FATIMA. 


“ O, how can Love’s eye be true, 

That is so vexed with watching and with tears ? 

No marvel then, if I mistake my view ; 

The Sun itself sees not till heaven clears. 

O cunning Love ! with tears thou keep’st me blind 
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.” 

— Shakespeare. 

“ Put on thy beautiful garments.” 

— Isaiah. 

Miss Constable went across to the piano, saying, 
‘‘ jN^ow, sit still, because I don’t often use music and 
I don’t like anyone standing beside me when I’m 
singing.” 

So the Bishop sat down on the roomy couch 
again and settled himself comfortably to hear the 
song which his entrance had interrupted. 

She had a beautiful voice, soft and rich and sym- 
pathetic. She sang as clearly as she spoke and the 
notes which stole out from under her firm little 
white hands were kept strictly in subordinance to 
the music of her voice. The song was called ‘‘ The 


THE COMFORTABLE FATIMA. 


43 


Story ; ” the music was passionately dreamy, and 
the words despairingly tender. 

Two wee babes together came 

Into a world of grief and shame ; 

What will their fate be — praise or blame ? 

Born in a stately castle he ; 

And in a lowly cottage she ; 

What will the story of these two be ? 

Two young hearts together met ; 

Love-filled eyes with glad tears wet ; 

Passionate vows ; but the end not yet 

Tender and trusting and true, ah I me ; 

High as the stars and deep as the sea ; 

What will the story of these two be ? 

Two sad souls in anguish drear. 

Parted and sorrowful, year after year ; 

She was so true — and he so dear ! 

Two hearts broken — one life free : 

Two souls apart that one should be ; 

This is the story — ah me ! — ah me I 

The Bishop did not miss a single line of it and 
when the last sweet cadence came to an end, Miss 
Constable got up and came back into the circle of 
light again. 

“ There ! Do you like it ? ’’ she asked. 

“ I don’t know,” he answered ; “ I think it is a 
song to haunt you. I like the way you sing it — 


44 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


how could I help it ? ” And then he rose to his 
feet and, almost abruptly, said, “ I have stayed an 
unconscionable time, I must say good-by now.” 

I can hardly express to you quite what Cecil Con- 
stable felt, when the door had closed behind the 
Bishop and, a moment later, she heard the wheels of 
his carriage passing away down the avenue. A cer- 
tain chill sense of disappointment had fallen over 
her, an indefinable feeling that she had made a mis- 
take, that she had done something if not exactly to 
offend him, at least to hurt him. Still he had asked 
for that song and she had sung it — well, certainly 
not any less well than usual. And yet, he had gone 
away so abruptly, so — it was strange, it was odd ; 
she could not make it out. 

“ Oh, I am getting fanciful,” she exclaimed aloud. 
“ Ruflfie, my dear, your missis is not used to Bishops, 
who take things into their heads and think things. 
Buffie, my child, your missis thinks Bishops are not 
good for her.” 

She little thought that the Bishop himself had 
gone away in a state of mind much more perturbed 
than her own. That he was then driving through 
the dark wintry evening in his smart Victoria, with 
the refrain of her song still ringing in his ears, ring- 
ing like a warning — 


“ This is the story— ah me !— ah me 1 


THE COMFORTABLE FATIMA. 


45 


She little thought that the despairing words had 
wreathed themselves into a sort of cloud, which 
hung over him like a pall ; that if she was feeling a 
vague sense of imagined vexation, he was feeling* as 
if some iron hand had gripped hard hold of his 
heart. 

“ RuflSe, my dear,” she cried, “ let us go back and 
play a little ; Bishops are not good for one.” 

She carried the cat to the little piano and set him 
up upon the blue silken draperies which shrouded it. 
The cat was an uncommon creature, for he loved 
music and would sit for hours on the silken cushion, 
which some of Miss Constable’s visitors sometimes 
remarked made an odd finish to these same draperies. 
As soon as she touched the keys, the cat settled him- 
self down in an attitude which was neither one of 
sleep nor of attention, but something midway be- 
tween the two. 

After a few hours, the strange feeling of uneasi- 
ness which the Bishop’s manner had aroused in her, 
wore away, and Cecil Constable thought no more 
about the effect of her song upon him. 

They did not meet again for more than a week, 
not indeed until she and Sir Edward went to a 
large dinner party at the Palace. It was the first 
time that she had entered tlie great house since 
the Bishop had taken possession of it. She had 
known it well enough in former days, of course, 


46 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


but everything was so much changed from the period 
of the last Bishop’s reign, that she could scarcely 
believe it was indeed the same. 

Since the sentimental Maria and her friend had 
gone over the Palace, the general aspect of the 
entire place was very much changed. You see, the 
Bishop had set the stamp of his own strong per- 
sonality upon everything. At that time the walls 
of the drawing-rooms had presented great undecked 
surfaces of white and yellow ; they were now lite- 
rally covered with pictures and china. The great 
settees, which went with the house, had all been 
re-covered to anatch the window draperies, so that 
the whoiv tone of the rooms had then been some- 
what of a dead level ; and it had been the tone of 
the upholsterer, not of the occupant. Kow, all the 
corner cupboards and cabinets were filled with 
beautiful china ; many photographs littered the 
tables, and cushions and embroideries were freely 
disposed about the settees and lounges. They were 
not quite like the rooms of a woman and yet they 
were unmistakably the rooms of a pre-eminently 
lovable man, sufficiently artistic to love beautiful 
things and sufficiently rich to gratify his tastes. 
The cat, of which the Bishop had spoken to Miss 
Constable, was in possession of the gj’eat tiger-skin, 
which lay before the huge fireplace in the principal 
drawing-room. 


THE COMFORTABLE FATIMA. 


47 


“Is tliat the cat?” she asked, when he took her 
hand and welcomed her to his house. 

He looked back. 

“Yes. My little friend is nearly always about, 
but of course she is a very commonplace person 
indeed, compared with your beauty.” 

Then somebody else was announced and Miss 
Constable sat down on the nearest chair and be- 
gan to make overtures toward the come-by-chance, 
which had followed the fortunes of the Bishop 
during the last eight years. 

“ Pussy,” she said, “ Pussy, come here and talk 
to me — Pm very fond of cats.” 

But Pussy did not move. ^d»' 

It was a small cat of the tiger-like tabby order, 
with a white breast ; it lay coiled up in a circle, 
apparently quite oblivious to anything that was 
going on. 

When the Bishop had greeted the new arrivals, 
he came back again to the fireplace. 

“ Fatima,” he said, “ Fatima, get up and make 
yourself agreeable at once.” 

But Fatima did no more than open one yellow 
eye and peer for a moment at her master. 

“ Come,” he said, stooping down and lifting the 
cat on to its feet, “ when a lady takes notice of you, 
you must make yourself agreeable. Fatima, Pin 
afraid your manners have been neglected.” 


48 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


“ Give lier to me,” said Miss Constable. “ Yes,” 
as lie hesitated, ‘‘ put her right on my knee — I love 
a cat dearly. Fatima, you are a beautiful little 
person. I think, Fatima, that you and I might 
become very friendly, if we had the opportunity.” 

She looked up as she spoke and caught the full 
gaze of the Bishop’s eyes. A sudden realization of 
the opening she had given him, made her turn first 
red and then white; she dropped her ej^es again 
immediately and then went on caressing and mak- 
ing much of the none too friendly Fatima. 

For a moment the Bishop was almost speechless, 
a wild desire to burst the bonds of conventionality 
and pour out to her everything that was in his 
mind took possession of him. He altogether for- 
got that there were five-and-twenty people gathered 
in the room, he indeed forgot everything, except- 
ing that this girl, whose favor had come to be all 
the world to him, had given him the chance of 
speaking plainly, as plainly as even he could de- 
sire. 

At that moment a voice sounded above the gen- 
eral hum of conversation. 

“Sir Thomas and Lady Yivian,” it said. 

The words brought the Bishop back to himself. 
He turned on his heel and went forward to receive 
his latest guests. Miss Constable bent her head low 
down over the cat, which had deliberately settled 


THE COMFORTABLE FATIMA. 


49 


itself into the most comfortable attitude possible in 
her lap. 

“ Oh, Fatima,” her thoughts ran, “ but I put my 
foot into it that time.” 

Almost immediately the dinner was announced 
and her cavalier came to offer her his arm. He 
happened to be one of the officers of the cavalry 
regiment then quartered in the town. Her neigh- 
bor on the other hand was Lord Lucifer. The 
Bishop himself sat between Lady Lucifer and Lady 
Vivian, and was the most personable man at that 
long table. 

For one thing a Bishop who has a fine physique 
has a better chance of looking well in the evening 
than any man not possessing a uniform. His smart- 
cut coat, corded across the breast, his knee-breeches, 
silk stockings, and big silver buckles, all single him 
out from the ordinary swallow-tail and expansive 
shirt-front of regulation evening dress. 

More than once Cecil Constable’s eyes strayed 
toward the giver of the feast, and each time that 
they did so he seemed to be moved by some sym- 
pathetic instinct to look in her direction also. She 
averted her eyes instantly, vexed with herself for 
having let them wander that way, and still more 
vexed to feel the tell-tale blood creeping up into 
her cheeks. 

She scarcely knew why this man interested her 
4 


50 


TEE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


so nincli, why lio attracted and even fascinated lier 
so intensely. She was not the very least little bit 
in love with him, she had never admitted to herself 
that it was possible for him to ask her to become 
the mistress of the Palace ; scarcely indeed did she 
think of his being attracted by her. Miss Constable 
had not been brought np to think it an even possible 
contingency that she might eventually marry a 
clergyman; on the contrary, she had learned to 
look upon the clergy as a class of men entirely set 
apart from her own life. Until this friendship with 
the Bishop, Sir Edward had never in his life taken 
the smallest interest in any clergyman. They had 
visited at the Palace, at the Deanery, and at the 
Kesidence, but in anything but an intimate manner. 
Their own Yicar was an old man, a scholar, a book- 
"worm, and a bachelor. He came to dine at E-aburn 
three or four times a year, and her father was in 
the habit of sending him game whenever he gave a 
shooting-party. The last Bishop she had known in 
a distant and formal kind of manner, going some- 
times to a garden-party, and, at long intervals, ex- 
changing dinners; but, in all her life, she had 
never known a clergyman intimately, and would as 
soon have thought of the likelihood of her marr}"- 
ing an archangel as of her marrying a Bishop. So 
it was with mixed feelings that she felt herself 
irresistibly attracted by this Anak of a churchman. 


THE COMFORTABLE FATIMA. 


51 


It is true that he was unlike any other church- 
man whom she had ever met, that he more nearly 
approached to the ideal soldier of Christ than those 
who follow religion as a profession generally do ; a 
soldier whose religion was strictly of an every-day 
kind, a churchman with whom religion came before 
the Church, a Christian whose Christianity was the 
Christianity of Christ himself, that plain, common- 
sense, every-day, practical teaching, of which we see 
so deplorably little in these latter days. In truth, 
the Bishop of Blankhampton was a very giant 
among men ; a man whose regular habit was to do 
right, because it was right and not because it looked 
right, a distinction which is too often absent in the 
calculations of the priestly character. 

When the ladies passed out of the dining-room 
it was the Bishop who opened the door for their 
exit. Miss Constable scrupulously avoided raising 
her eyes any higher than his chin as she passed, 
although she smiled a little and gave him a cour- 
teous inclination of her head. Yet she was con- 
scious that her heart was beating much more rapidly 
than was comfortable, and she was conscious, too, 
that the Bishop had wished her to lift her eyes to 
his. 

He did not afterward in any sense single her 
out by any special attention. It was natural, as she 
was sitting near to Lady Yivian, that he should 


52 THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 

draw near to that gracious lady and speak to her 
once or twice during the evening. Perhaps it was 
natural, too, that he should carry across to their part 
of the room, an album filled with unmounted pho- 
tographs. 

I thought you would like to look at these, Lady 
Yivian,” he said, yet looking at Cecil. “ They are 
photographs of my own home at I^Tetherby and of 
other places that I have lived in.” 

He drew the little table nearer to Lady Vivian 
and put the book down upon it before her. He did 
not wait to see how the two ladies liked the views, 
but moved here and there among his other guests, 
speaking to all though lingering with none. 

“ This is most intei’esting, dear,” said Lady Viv- 
ian, in her most urbane and bland manner. Oh, 
you see, here is Netherby — oh, what a sweet place 1 
I knew, of course, that he was very well off, but I 
had no idea that he had such a place as this — why, 
it is lovely ! ” 

There were at least a dozen views of Hetherby, 
which took the first place in the book. 

“ I wonder how he came to be a clergyman — to 
go in for the Church,” said Lady Vivian, in a mus- 
ing tone. “ Hot as so many young men do, because 
there was a fat living in the family, for he told me 
he had never had a chance of that, as his father’s 
cousin has been there for some thirty years and is 


THE COMFORTABLE FATIMA. 


53 


likely to hold it for a good many years to come. 
And it could not have been for that reason either, 
with a place like this. I’m sure,” Lady Vivian went 
on, it is really almost incredible nowadays to be- 
lieve that a young man with every worldly advan- 
tage has gone into the Church for no other reason 
than from mere conviction — and yet, it is a beautiful 
reason, Cecil, and it seems to me that the Bishop 
has not altered his convictions either.” 

“ Oh, no,” said Cecil, diligently looking at the 
views, “ oh, no, he is quite a genuine sort of clergy- 
man, don’t you think ? ” 

“ Perfectly so,” said Lady Vivian, decidedly. 

It was a very interesting record that the album 
formed, for apparently it contained pictures of evejy 
house in which he had lived for any length of time. 
As I said, it began with many views of Netherby, 
then went on to one, a large roomy house, the in- 
scription underneath which was, ‘‘ My first school.” 
Then came views of Eton, then views of Magdalen, 
and also the interior of his sitting-room there. 
Then the house and church of his first curacy, a 
quiet, idyllic country place ; then those of his second 
charge in the East-end of London. After these 
came many views of his London parish, and some 
beautiful new photographs of the Palace in which 
they were all assembled at that moment. 

Presently he came back and joined them again. 


64 


THE SOUL OF TEE BISHOP, 


“ You see,” he said, in his frank and straightfor- 
ward tones, ‘‘that I have gathered all my dwelling- 
places together in one book. Don’t you think it’s a 
good idea ? I feel, though, as if the space at the 
end of the book is almost superfluous, because I 
shall never be made an Archbishop — at least, I 
don’t think so — and 1 shall stay in Blankhampton 
for a few years, till I feel that I can conscientiously 
give it up, and then I shall go and spend the end of 
my life in my own home.” 

“ But not alone, my dear Bishop,” said Lady 
Yivian in her smooth tones. 

“ Ah, well,” he answered, “ that, you see, will not 
altogether depend upon me.” 


CHAPTER Y. 


NOT GOOD ENOUGH ! 


“ O, know, sweet love, I always write of you, 

And you and love are still my argument ; 

So all my best is dressing old words new, 

Spending again what is already spent ; 

For as the sun is daily new and old. 

So is my love still telling what is told.” 

—Shakespeare. 

** Make haste, my beloved I ” 

—Song of Solomon, 

The Bisliop had been more than a year at Blank- 
hampton and the good people of the neighborhood 
very often said to one another, that it was wonder- 
ful how lie contrived to get about and make himself 
familiar and friendly with so many and such widely 
different classes of Society. He seemed to be here, 
there, and everywhere. In former times, when any 
clergyman had wanted the Bishop to preach in his 
church, he had had to make some special occasion 
as the excuse for obtaining the favor. Either he 
must contrive to restore his church, or to get a new 


56 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


organ, or to arrange that it should he chosen for a 
confirmation or some such ceremonial. But with 
the new holder of the office, such substantial excuse 
was not necessary. He seemed to be available for 
everything, for all sorts and conditions of clerical 
functions, given in the interests of all sorts and 
conditions of men and women. In the hospital and 
workhouse he was almost as well known as the 
chaplains of those institutions. He penetrated into 
the prison, into the asylums, and almshouses, made 
himself at home in the Church Institutes, and the 
various associations for the recreation and improve- 
ment of the young people of both sexes. And yet, 
he contrived, in addition to all these labors, to go 
about a good deal in his own rank of life. 

To Cecil Constable it seemed as if she met him 
everywhere ; as if she could not enter any house or 
go to any gathering of men and women without 
seeing tlie fair smooth head towering above all 
others, without meeting the gaze of the frank blue 
eyes and hearing the pleasant, well-modulated tones 
of his voice. 

But extraordinarily popular as he had made him- 
self, I must confess that the first time the Bishop 
of Blankhampton appeared in a ball-room, a little 
quiver of excitement went from one end of the dio- 
cese to the other. The new departure, however, 
did the Bishop no harm in the eyes of his people. 


NOT GOOD ENOUGH! 


57 


On the contrary, his presence in a great measure 
sanctified and liallowed an amusement, which he 
declared was, in his estimation, both innocent and 
healthful. 

‘‘ 1 ^ 0 , I don’t dance,” he said to Lady Yivian, 
when speaking to her on the subject, “ because I 
am very big and I never was very good at it. But 
I would rather dance, although, perhaps, it would 
be a little venturesome of a man in my position to 
do so, than I would sit for hours playing cards for 
money. I don’t think that much harm — no, to be 
quite candid, I don’t think that any harm has ever 
come of dancing. It is pretty, it is intensely enjoy- 
able for those who dance well enough, and I see no 
more reason why young people should not dance, 
than why lambs should not skip about the meadows. 
I cannot see why we clergymen should shun a ball- 
room, -any more than we should shun a dinner- 
table, and I believe that my half-guinea will do as 
much or more good toward the funds of the hospi- 
tal, as any other half-guinea which is paid here to- 
night. If it is wrong for us to dance, it is wrong 
for everybody, and, as I said before, I believe that 
there is no harm in it.” 

“ Well, neither do I,” said Lady Yivian briskly, 
and still keeping her pet project in mind, “and I 
am quite sure, my dear Bishop, that a great deal of 
happiness is brought about by such assemblies as 


58 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


this. If we were to debar our young people from 
all such meetings and confine our entertainments 
entirely to dinner parties and a little music, what 
chance would they have of meeting and growing 
better acquainted with one another? Why, just 
none at all. And what would the world be like if 
there were no marriages? Of course. Bishop, I 
know we are taught that in another world there 
will be no marrying or giving in marriage, but, at 
the same time, marriage is the obvious duty of all 
people in this world. I truthfully look upon all 
unmarried people as having but half an existence — 
oh, yes, and even yourself also, you unmarried 
people are all tarred with the same brush in my 
mind.” 

The Bishop laughed out loud. 

“ My dear Lady Yivian,” he said, “ you must not 
be too hard upon us poor bachelors. Some of us 
have not had time to settle ourselves matrimonially, 
and others have not been so fortunate as to meet 
with the right complement to themselves, and a few, 
I dare say, have met and missed their affinity. 
You must surely pity these.” 

“I don’t think,” said Lady Yivian, looking at 
him with a pleasant smile, “ that you can claim to 
be one of those. Bishop.” 

The Bishop laughed, but he reddened a little, 
and, almost instinctively, his blue eyes wandered 


NOT GOOD ENOUGH! 


59 


round the room in search of the shining dark eyes 
and proudly carried head of the heiress of Raburn. 

“ Let me take you to have some coffee,” he said, 
by way of changing the conversation. 

He was engaged to Miss Constable — not to dance, 
for, as 1 have said, he did not dance, but for a little 
chat during the next quadrille. Lady Yivian ac- 
cepted his invitation with alacrity and many ej^es 
were turned toward the two noticeable figures, as 
he led her down the room toward the refreshment 
table. 

“How that,” said Sir Edward Constable to Lord 
Lucifer, as they passed by them, “ that is what I 
call a man. Ho snivelling, no whining, no yowl- 
ing, but a genuine, honest, Christian gentleman. 
My dear Lucifer, if there were a few more men like 
him in the Church, its power would be simply un- 
limited.” 

“ Then, perhaps,” said Lord Lucifer dryly, “ it is 
a good thing that there are not.” 

“ Tush, my dear fellow, tush, weak organization 
is never a good thing. Strong organization is 
always good. Fve believed in strength all my life, 
and I shall believe in strength to the end of the 
chapter. I don’t believe in parsons on the whole ; in 
fact, though I like my own old chap at Raburn as 
well as I ever liked a parson in my life. I’ve never 
been on terms of intimacy with a parson of any sort 


60 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


till this man came among us. But I do something 
more than like him, I admire him almost more than 
any man I have ever known.’’ 

In due course the Bishop escorted Lady Vivian 
back to her seat and presently left her to go in 
search of Miss Constable. Her partner was just 
leaving her when the Bishop offered her his arm, 
asking her if she would not like to take a turn in 
the corridor. 

It happened that evening that Cecil was in an 
unusually gay mood. 

“ I never thought,” she said, as they passed out 
of the long ball-room into the corridor, all decked 
with great palms and lighted with shaded lamps, 
“ I never thought that I should walk out of Blank- 
hampton Assembly Booms, in this highly frivolous 
manner, on the arm of a bishop. Beally, you have 
worked marvels among us. People seem to think 
that it is quite a natural thing for you to be here 
to-night.” 

“ It is a natural thing for me to be here to-night,” 
he maintained stoutly. 

“ Yes, I know it is natural for you, but if the last 
Bishop had come to a ball, Blankshire and Blank- 
hampton would alike have gone into fits over it. 
Until your time, I really believe that all the dear 
folk around here believed it was wicked for a bishop 
even to laugh. But you know you ought to dance. 


NOT GOOD ENOUGH! 


61 


you really ought to dance; it is the first sign I 
have seen in you of doing things by halves.” 

‘‘ I would dance,” said the Bishop, if I could ; 
but I never was good at it, and I don’t believe in 
giving myself away by doing things badly.” 

“ I am sure you don’t,” said Miss Constable, 
laughing. 

“ I know perfectly well,” the Bishop went on, in 
a tone of much amusement, “ that, as you consented 
to waste a dance over me, we ought to have sat upon 
two chairs on the dais, talking very gravely and 
formally of my own particular work — in fact, talk- 
ing shop — but, all the same, it’s very much pleas- 
anter in this corridor, isn’t it? ” 

Miss Constable laughed aloud. ‘‘ Well, yes, I am 
afraid it is.” 

“ Oh, don’t say afraid,” said the Bishop. I’m 
sure you’re not one of those people who think that 
a man, because he happens to be a Bishop, ought 
no longer to take any interest in every-day life. 
You know, there is no earthly reason why a man 
because he makes religion his profession as well as 
his life, should always look down his nose to try and 
find out where the corners of his mouth are gone 
to. By the bye,” he went on, in a different tone, 
“ here’s a charming resting-place ; do let ns sit here 
a while.” 

They were actually in the cosey little retreat before 


62 THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 

Miss Constable had time to draw back, without 
seeming to make a display of doing so. Xot that 
she really minded sitting there a while with him for 
her companion, for since that evening on which she 
and her father had dined at the Palace, when she 
had so awkwardly, so completely, and so uninten- 
tionally given him a perhaps not wished-for opening, 
he had never by word or look reminded her of the 
incident, and, some months having gone by, she 
had since thought that he had no more feeling 
of interest in her than he had in any other young 
lady of his flock. True, he had been several times 
to see her, and she had more than once had long 
arguments with him on the subject of women’s 
rights and other delectable topics of the day. Still, 
these are not embarrassing topics, nor at all personal 
ones, so it was with a very light heart that she settled 
herself on the comfortable lounge and went on talk- 
ing as gayly as if he were only some young squire 
or officer of the garrison, rather than the spiritual 
head of the Church and the keeper of her soul. 

“ Tell me,” she said, waving her great feather fan 
to and fro, ‘‘how is the sleek and comfortable 
Patima? ” 

^ A gleam of light came into the Bishop’s blue eyes, 
but he did not answer her. 

“ Miss Constable,” he said, “ Lady Vivian is very 
much concerned about me.” 


NOT GOOD ENOUGH! 


63 


Cecil’s eyes opened to their widest extent. “ What 
has Lady Yivian to do with Fatima ? ” she asked 
rather blankly. 

The Bishop reddened a little. 

“Well, yoiir mention of Fatima reminded me of 
something, that was all, and ” 

“ And what ? ” 

“Well, I suppose I spoke of what was uppermost 
in my mind. I know, of course, that you are quite 
unconscious of what you said when you dined at the 
Palace and were making much of my humble little 
friend, Fatima.” 

“Oh, did I say anything?” said Cecil, a little 
awkwardly — she remembered perfectly well what 
she had said, but she felt such a desire to put off 
what was so inevitably coming, that she said just the 
one thing which would invite the Bishop to go on. 
“ Did I say anything ? ” she faltered. 

“ You said,” he answered, “ that you thought you 
might become very good friends with Fatima — if 
you had the opportunity.” 

“ Oh, well,” she said vexedly, “ of course, I 
haven’t the opportunity — it goes without saying. 
It is not possible that I should have — how could I ? ” 

She flushed a vivid painful scarlet in her anxiety 
to put off the evil moment, and every word that she 
said but served to draw the Bishop’s explanation on. 

One never quite knows how to describe these 


64 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


afPairs; in truth, 1 can hardly tell you how it all 
happened ; whether it was from the flush on her 
face, or the look of distress in her gray eyes, or from 
some feeling in the Bishop’s heart that he must not 
lose such an opportunity as this. Be that as it may, 
in less time than it takes me to write the words, 
the big fan had fallen to the ground and Miss Con- 
stable’s slender hands were fast imprisoned in the 
great strong clasp of the man who loved her. 

“ There is only one way,” he said, in a trembling 
voice, “ in which you could have that opportunity — 
that is to become the mistress of everything that the 
Palace contains, myself included. Miss Constable 
— Cecil — 1 may call you Cecil, may I not — I am 
sure you must have known how utterly I have been 
at your feet ever since the first time we met — oh, 
and before that.” 

“ Before that ! ” she echoed. “ Why, where did 
you see me before we met at the Yivians’ ? ” 

He drew her little, white-gloved hands up against 
his breast. 

“I saw you,” he said, devouring her with his 
frank handsome eyes, “ I saw you one morning in 
the Parish. I did not know one soul from another, 
until I began my sermon, and, surely, you must have 
known that I was preaching to you and for you the 
whole time.” 

The girl positively shuddered. 


NOT GOOD ENOUGH! 


65 


‘‘ Oil, no, don’t say that,” she cried. 

“ But, my dear, I must say it — it is true,” he an- 
swered. “ I did not know what you were like— I 
• could not have told what you were like to save my 
life — and yet, the moment I saw you that night at 
Ingleby, I knew you again for the soul that seemed 
to be laid bare before me on that bright July morn- 
ing. I don’t remember what the sermon was about 
even — I remember nothing, except that you were 
there and that my heart seemed to be telling itself 
to yours.” 

If he had been less passionately in earnest, he 
must have noticed how ghastly pale the girl had 
grown. 

“ Oh, Bishop,” she cried, “ don’t — don’t say any 
more — don’t say it — it is no use — I am not fit for 
you — I am not good enough for you — you know so 
little of me — don’t say any more about it — it is 
impossible — what 3^011 ask is out of the question — 
you only distress me. Did I seem to be drawing 
you on, to be leading you on, to be drawing you on 
to tell me this ? Oh, if I did, forgive me — I had no 
notion of it when we came in here. I would have 
stayed away from every ball from now until the end 
of my life, rather than let you say what you have 
said. Don’t think of me in that light again — it is 
out of the question- -it is impossible.” 

But the Bishop was too utterly in love himself 
5 


66 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


and too little used to any form of philandering to 
be easily put off without a complete and convincing 
answer. He still held her hands fast in his great 
grasp. She could feel the strong beating of his 
lieart, she could see, by the blaze in his eyes, how 
he was hanging on her words — as a man would 
hang upon the issues of life and death. His voice 
was verj^ eager and trembling, but he was in no wise 
abashed or disconcerted. 

“ You say it is impossible,” he said, looking down 
into her lovely unwilling eyes, “ that you are not 
good enough for me — that you ai-e not fit for me ; 
that it is so impossible that 3^011 wonld have made 
all sorts of unnecessary sacrifices rather than have 
let me speak out what was in my mind. But that 
is ridiculous. To say that you are not good enough 
for me is nonsense, to say that 3"ou are not fit for 
me is absurd, and the one thing which would make 
it impossible for you to give yourself to me, you 
have not said.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” she cried, 
shrinking away yet a little more. 

But it was no use shrinking, he was so big, so 
confident, so gentle and yet so manly, so masterful 
and yet so tender ; it was practically of no use for 
her to attempt to shirk what was inevitable. 

“ There is only one thing that you can say which 
would make me believe that it. is really impossible/’ 


NOT GOOD ENOUGH! 


67 


he went on, “ and that would be to tell me — what 
you have not told me — that you do not love me.” 

She tried hard not to look at him, to reply with- 
out letting her eyes meet his, but the personal 
power and fascination of the man were so strong, 
that this was beyond her strength. Slowly, unwill- 
ingly, yet irresistibly, she raised her eyes, feeling 
with every moment that her powers of resistance 
were fast leaving her. But she said nothing. 

“ There is nobody else ? ” he asked. But he spoke 
in a tone of complete confidence, as if her answer 
was a foregone conclusion. 

“ No, there is nobody else,” she admitted. 

“ I don’t know,” he went on, “ but I think that 
there has never been anybody else on your side. I 
don’t generally go through life with my eyes shut, 
it is my business to keep them open, it is my busi- 
ness to judge of men and women by what might 
to some seem mere trifles, and, although I know 
that a woman of your beauty and with all your 
advantages of position, and influence, and wealth, 
cannot have lived in the world for some six or seven 
years, as I am told you have done, without having 
excited a great deal of admiration, I feel almost as 
sure as I have ever been of anything in my life, 
that your heart has been untouched until now.” 

She did not answer him, except by a look, but the 
look told him that he was perfectly right. 


68 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


‘‘ Then,” he said, I am waiting for the one word 
which will send me away now and for always. I 
feel,” speaking in a very trinrnphant tone, “ that 
you do love me — I Icnow that I love you. I need 
not add any protestations that my love for you is 
such that I have never felt for any woman, for you 
will believe me when I tell you that in my whole 
life, until now, I have never asked any woman to 
share it, I never even thought of doing so. Come,” 
holding her hands yet closer, “ I am waiting for 
that one word.” 

I think at that moment that Cecil Constable 
would have given worlds had she been able to 
say it. 

“But I can’t say it — I do like you, and you 
know it,” she said brokenly. “ I have never cared 
for anybody — you are quite right in that — but, all 
the same, you must not ask me to marry you — jow 
must not ever think that I can come to the Palace, 
except as my father’s daughter. Indeed, I am not 
good enough for you — I am not fit for you — I 
should be doing wrong if I said yes. Oh, no, don’t 
ask me why — I know myself so much better than 
you know me, and you must believe me when I tell 
you that I am not fit to be your wife.” 

But to him the assertion was merely the husk of 
an argument whose kernel was wholly wanting. 

He was no laggard in love, this Bishop, no gallant 


NOT GOOD ENOUGH! 


69 


dragoon tlien quartered in the garrison could have 
been more eager and more masterful than lie, 

‘‘ My dearest,” lie said, “ you are talking non- 
sense; there is only one thing which could prevent 
you and I being fit for each other. If there were 
no love, I should not have another word to say, but 
I know there is — I can see it in every look you give 
me — I can hear it in your voice — feel it in your 
hands — see it in every line of your face.” 

She did not deny it, but, at the same time, neither 
did she admit it. 

“ You piust not ask it,” she said, under her breath 
at last. 

Then I won’t,” he replied, setting one of her 
hands free, “ I won’t ask it. I’ll take it.” 

He put his arm round her and drew her, still 
feebly resisting, close to him ; he was just bending 
to kiss her, when a man’s form darkened the en- 
trance to the retreat in which they sat. As soon as 
lie perceived the. kind of tUe-d4ete upon which he 
was intruding, the new-comer turned abruptly on 
his heel and went away, not, however, before Cecil 
Constable had caught a glimpse of his retreating 
figure. 

Oh,” she cried, pushing the Bishop away fi*om 
her, ‘‘ somebody saw’ us — oh, what shall I do, what 
can I say? There is no mistaking you. Why did 
you do it, when I asked you not to ? Oh, why have 


70 THE SOUL OF TEE BISHOP. 

you put me in this awful position ? I shall never 
get over it, never.” 

‘‘ The way is very easy,” said the Bishop, not in 
the least disturbed. “ People are bound to know 
sooner or later, there need be no more than the 
usual surprise over an engagement, which many 
people must have anticipated. I will come and see 
your father to-morrow ; there can be no need to dis- 
tress yourself.” 

“ Oh, but I haven’t said yes,” she cried, “ I have 
told you that it is impossible. I must have time — I 
must think — there is a great deal to be thought 
about. It is not as if you were a nobody, an ordi- 
nary man, a soldier, or a squire, or somebody of no 
importance, you are different to everybody else in 
the county— don’t you see that? Don’t you see 
that being a Bishop makes it so very different ? ” 

‘‘ ]^o, I don’t,” he said, promptly. “ I don’t see 
what my being a Bishop has to do with my mar- 
riage. If you are good enough ta be Sir Edward 
Constable’s daughter, you are more than good 
enough to be the wife of the Bishop of Blankhamp- 
ton. And I don’t marry you as a Bishop, I marry 
you as Archibald E’etherby.” 

“Oh, if you only could,” she burst out, “but, 
you see, you are something more than Archibald 
Netherby ; you are the Bishop of Blankhampton. 
It makes the whole situation different — it makes 


NOT GOOD ENOUGH! 


71 


oiir relations to each other different — it makes mine 
to you so different. But I must go back, I must 
go back and try to look as if nothing had happened. 
Oh, it will be dreadful — that man will have spread 
it everywhere. There is no mistaking you, you are 
so big, your dress itself is different to everyone 
else’s, there is no mistaking you and I am sure he 
saw me too. Oh, I think if you will fetch my father 
I will go straight home without going into the room 
again.” 

“My dear child,” said the Bishop, in a perfectly 
composed voice, “ you will do nothing of the kind. 
You will sit down again and you will talk to me for 
a little while, and then I will take you back and 
put you down beside our good friend Lady Yivian, 
and then you will have to dance with one or two of 
the men you were engaged to. I never regretted 
before,” he added, drawing her down upon the 
lounge again, “ that I am such a dnft’er at dancing.” 

She sat down again — oh, yes, she was like wax in 
his hands— still, it was like the kind of wax, of 
which you have to be very careful lest it break in 
your hands instead of bending. 

The Bishop was very judicious. He picked up 
her fan and, opening it, put it into her left hand. 

“ There, hold that so,” he said, “ nobody will see 
3^ou — nobod}^ will know who it is, your dress is like 
a dozen other dresses here to-night, and I will put 


72 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


my buckles out of sight, so that nobody will know 
me even if they come in, which is quite unlikely. 
Now, I won’t worry you any more and we won’t 
argue any more to-night about your being fit for me, 
or not good enough for me, or not even about your 
not loving me, so you can • get quite composed and 
like yourself again, and then I will take you back. 
I may hold your hand, mayn’t I ? ” 

He had already taken hold of her hand and she 
had not the heart to withdraw it from him. “ Yes, 
they are a contrast,” he said, looking down wdth 
amused eyes upon her little slender hand, in its 
well-fitting glove, lying in his huge brown one, 
“ but then men’s hands and women’s hands should 
be different and a contrast to each other. I am not 
fond of masculine women, but I cannot endure an 
effeminate man.” 

He did not say another word of what was upper- 
most in his mind. He kept her there for half an 
hour longer, until she was as much herself again 
as she was likely to be after such a trying conversa- 
tion. 

“ Now come,” he said, in answer to her wish that 
they should return to the crowd again, ‘‘you must 
have a glass of champagne after this ; but before 
we part, tell me would you like me to go away at 
once ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” she answered. 


NOT GOOD ENOUGH! 


73 


It would look as if you liad refused me. Yes, 
it would rather, and I don’t want people to think 
that, unless it’s absolutely inevitable. Then I may 
come to Rayburn to-morrow ? ” 

“ Yes, I suppose so.” 

“ And you will answer definitely, one way or the 
other ? ” 

“ Yes, I will try.” 

“ I don’t think you will find it very difiicult,” he 
said confidently. “ I don’t feel as if you would turn 
me adrift after all; you couldn’t do it — I know you 
couldn’t. But I am content to wait for your pleas- 
ure, although I think you might just as well say it 
now as to-morrow afternoon — because you will have 
to say it ; you cannot be false to yourself, putting 
me out of the question. But supposing,” suddenly 
turning graver, “ that we should chance not to meet 
again, for one never knows what may happen in a 
single night — will you do me a favor now ? ” 

“ Yes, if I can,” she answered. 

He did not put the question into words, he stooped 
and kissed her. 

“ How, I will take you back,” he said simply. 

When they got back to the ball-room they found 
it comparatively deserted, for supper was in full 
swing in the great room adjoining. 

“ Let me give you some supper,” he said, in a 
matter-of-fact, yet masterful tone, “ you must need 


74 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


it, and it will keep people quiet if they see us 
having supper together. Don't look anxious, don’t 
worry yourself about what people may be thinking. 
People in these little provincial towns are always 
thinking something or other — they’ve got nothing 
else to do, at least a good half of them haven’t ; take 
our friend Lady Yivian, for instance, a good soul, 
brimming over with affection for her fellow-creatures 
— how she has worried herself over my affairs — how 
anxious she has been to impress your charms upon 
me — how delicately and deftly she has weaved little 
scraps of praise of you into her every-day, ordinary 
conversation ! I have been very much amused 
during these past months.” 

“ I don’t like Lady Vivian trying to make people 
like me,” said Cecil, vexedly. 

“ It is one of the penalties of knowing a 
thoroughly good-natured woman,” said the Bishop, 
carelessl}^ “ In this case, however, her efforts were 
altogether and entirely superfluous. It was an 
interesting little game at cross-purposes that we 
played, she and I, because she was giving an admi- 
rable study of careless interpolation of your name 
into her conversation, and I was giving an equally 
admirable exhibition of absolute indiflerence to 
you, feeling all the time that it amused her and 
certainly did not hurt me. ITow, shall I get you 
some mayonnaise ? ” 


NOT GOOD ENOUGH! 


75 


Tliey found a seat at one of the side tables and 
he ministered to her quietly and without any fuss, 
indeed, as only a certain class of men can do, and, 
as a result, the color stole back into her cheeks and 
the scared look died out of her soft eyes, so tliat 
when she once more found herself near to Lady 
Vivian on the dais — an admirable arrangement 
never seen in any ball-room except at Blankhamp- 
ton, saving always the presence of royalty — Cecil 
was looking bright and like herself again. 

At last the music began again and a partner 
came very diffidently to claim her for a dance. 
Miss Constable jumped up with more alacrity than 
she had ever displayed in her whole life. 

“ I was not sure,” he began rather hesitatingly, 
“ whether you would wish to dance this with me or 
not.” 

“ Why not ? ” she asked. 

“Well, you were engaged to me for a waltz 
before. Miss Constable, and when I went to look for 
you I — I could not find you. People tell me that I 
am to congratulate you to-night.” 

“ Not at all,” she said sharply. “ I was wonder- 
ing where my partners were. I think I have been 
very badly treated to-night.” 

The young man’s manner changed instantly and 
a thought flashed through his mind that she had 
refused the Bishop. He had indeed been the one 


76 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


to intrude upon their tete-d-iete, and the one to 
spread the news through the room that she and the 
Bishop were going to make a match of it. Poor 
Cecil ! 

Ten minutes later Ladj Yivian “happened” to 
saunter past her. 

“My dear child” she said very kindly, “a 
thousand happinesses to you.” 

“ You are very kind,” said Cecil, “ you are always 
kind, dear Lady Yivian, but why to-night of all 
others ? ” 

“ Oh, a little bird told me what has happened.” 

“ Nothing has happened,” she said quickly. 

“ Oh, well, well, 1 am a little too soon, am I ? 
But I wish you joy all the same, dear Cecil.” 

“ You are very kind,” said Cecil, softening a 
little, “but there is really nothing to wish me joy 
about — at least, not yet.” 

“ I see, I see. Well, dear, you will not keep me 
in the dark when there is anything to tell, will 
you?” 

“Not at all,” said Cecil, “when there is anything 
to know, everybody shall know it. But I am going 
to say good-night now, Lady Yivian, I am veiy 
tired and I am going home.” 

She made her way to her father and told him that 
she was tired, that her head ached, and that she 
wanted to go home at once. He, good-natured 


NOT GOOD ENOUGH/ 


77 


man, was nothing loath ; he was accustomed to sit 
out balls to the bitter end, as all fathers with good 
daughters ought to do, but since Cecil herself 
wished to go home, he was more than pleased to 
fall in with her desires. 

By the bye,” he said suddenly, when they had 
almost reached home, “ what was Lady Vivian so 
full of to-night ? ” 

‘‘ I did not know that she was full of anything,” 
said Cecil, mildly prevaricating. 

“ Oh, wasn’t she, though ? She nodded, and 
smirked, and threw out vague hints, and went on 
exactly as if your engagement had just been 
announced. You haven’t got engaged to anybody, 
have you ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” said Cecil, “ as if I should get 
engaged without telling you. Beally, Father, you 
are as foolish as Lady Vivian herself, and she lives 
for nothing else but to try and worry people into 
marrying each other. I wonder she doesn’t try to 
get you settled.” 

Perhaps she will when you are,” he returned, 
with a laugh. 

‘‘ Ah, that’s very likely,” said Miss Constable, with 
more annoyance than the occasion seemed to warrant. 

‘‘ However, she is a good sort,” Sir Edward 
remarked, as the carriage drew up at the great 
entrance. 


78 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


Miss Constable did not linger downstairs. 

“ I will go straight up to bed, dear Father,” she 
said, lifting her cheek up to be kissed, ‘‘my head 
aches and I am very tired. No, dear, I won’t have 
anything; Louise will get me a cup of tea if I 
want it.” 

However, when she reached her bedroom she did 
not ask Louise to get her tea or anything else. She 
submitted to be undressed and to have her shining 
hair brushed out and braided loosely in a long 
plait. 

“ No, nothing else, Louise,” she said, “ nothing.” 

Surely, for a girl who had just received a most 
brilliant offer, she was most quiet and subdued. She 
drew a chair up to the fire and sat there for a time, 
staring into the glowing embers and thinking — 
thinking — thinking. And then she put out her 
light and got into bed, but not to sleep. The 
embers sank slowly down into the grate and 
gradually dai-kness closed in over the still wide-open 
eyes and, at last, under that friendly shelter, the 
tears began to fiow ; she hid her face in the pillow 
and wept bitterly. 

The Bishop, meantime, had gone home ; that is 
to say, as soon as he perceived that Miss Constable 
and her father were leaving, he quietly and un- 
ostentatiously took himself away, without bidding 
farewell to anyone. He had a sort of idea that Lady 


NOT GOOD ENOUGH/ 


79 


Yivian was bearing down upon liim like a ship in 
full sail, but he cleverly escaped her and got out of 
the room before their paths could meet, so that the 
only person who, in any way, was able to approach 
the great topic of the evening to him, was a hard- 
riding old Squire, a hardened bachelor, who was 
standing in the portico, waiting for his brougham, 
while the Bishop was there for a like purpose. 

“ Well, Bishop,” he said, “I expect you’ve enjoyed 
yourself to-night.” 

“ Yes, I have,” answered the Bishop pleasantly. 

“ Your predecessor never went to dances.” 

‘‘ No, so I’m told,” the Bishop replied. 

‘‘ And he was married, eh ? ” 

“ Yes, yes, he was married.” 

It was an assured fact, there was no gainsaying it, 
indeed the Bishop did not attempt to gainsay it. 

“ Ah, I dare say you’ll be married after a bit.” 

“ I can’t say,” said the Bishop coolly. “ I may 
be, of course. But I don’t think that that would 
make any difference to my going to a dance now and 
then. I think I should like to see my fellow- 
creatures as much, if I were married, as I do now 
that I am single.” 

“ Well, there’s logic in that,” said the old Squire 
deliberately. “ But, of course, you know what people 
are saying to-night ? ” 

“ No, I never hear any scandal,” said the Bishop. 


80 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


“ Of course I know that it’s there — I can see it, I 
can see it any time, but I never hear it, even the 
most inveterate scandalmongers draw the line at 
talking scandal to me.” 

I didn’t say it was scandal,” said the other, 
lansrhing. 

‘‘ Oil, not scandal ? Well, I didn’t hear any par- 
ticular news.” 

‘‘ No,” said the other, you wouldn’t. You’d be 
the last, of course. Still, I wish you joy, my dear 
Bishop, I wish you joy, and if I’m the first to con- 
gratulate you, that’s the greater pleasure for me.” 

“ I’m sure you’re very kind,” said the Bishop, 
laughing also. “ I have no special cause for con- 
gratulations that I know of, rather the contrary if 
the truth were told ; but I’m obliged to 3'OU, Mr. 
Yandeleur, I’m always glad to have good wishes, 
even if the raison d’etre is a little doubtful. Well,” 
as his brougham drew up, “ I’ll wish you good -night 
and many thanks and — congratulations when your 
time comes.” 

“ Congratulations when my time comes,” Squire 
Yandeleur’s thoughts ran, as he got into his own 
carriage. “ Il’m, that sounds as if my young lady 
had said no, doesn’t it? ” 

The Bishop, meantime, was driving home through 
the darkness, his thoughts more or less in a tumult, 
his brain in more or less of a whirl, his heart full to 


NOT GOOD ENOUGH/ 


81 


overflowing, and with just enough of uncertainty 
overshadowing all to make his position one of ex- 
treme anxiety. 

And yet, he knew that she loved him, he was 
certain of it ; why, he could hardly say ; he could 
not have explained it, but he felt that she loved 
him. She had not denied it, indeed she had gone 
further than that, she had told him that there 
had never been another in her heart. 

He was differently placed to her. A sleepy foot- 
man opened the door and told him in a machine-like, 
yet deferential tone, that there was a good Are in 
the study; he also inquired whether his lordship 
would like a fire in his bedroom. It was almost an 
habitual custom in the house that the Bishop should 
have that question put to him, and it was quite as 
usual for him to reply no. 

“ You need not sit up, I have some work to do, I 
shall be late. Let nobody sit up,” said the Bishop, 
as he gave his coat into the man’s charge. 

“ Yery good, my lord,” he replied. 

The comfortable Fatima met him halfway across 
the great entrance hall. She received him with 
many demonstrations of delight, purring and arch- 
ing her back and going through the whole feline 
category of making herself agreeable. She fol- 
lowed him into the study and mewed plaintively, 
because he did not take any notice of her, then 
6 


82 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


sprang on to the table and rubbed lier head against 
his liand. 

“ Ah, is that yon, Fatima,’’ he said, gently ; ‘‘ I 
had forgotten you, little friend, I had forgotten 
you.” 

He had apparently forgotten the work which liad 
been his excuse to the servant for not going to bed. 
At all events, he did no work that night, beyond 
walking up and down the study and smoking as hard 
as if he were a navvy instead of a bishop. 

It was far into the small hours ere he, at length, 
sought his sleeping-room, but, unlike Cecil, he went 
to sleep at once, like a child, and when morning 
came, got up strong and handsome as ever, surely 
as gallant a wooer as ever went to claim the hand of 
his lady fair — doubtful, yet confident, assured and 
yet a little diffident, proud yet humble, anxious and 
yet very happy. 


CHAPTER YL 


ONE WOED. 

“No good and lovely thing exists in this world without its 
corresponding darkness ; and the universe presents itself continu. 
ally to mankind under the stern aspect of warning, or of choice, 
the good and evil set on the right hand or the left.” 

— Kuskin. 

“I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.” 

— Sang of Solomon. 

When Cecil opened her eyes the following morn- 
ing, for she had fallen asleep at last, her maid had 
just brought a<)up of tea to her bedside. 

“ Oh, Louise, is Sir Edward hunting to-day ? ” 
she asked, sleepily. 

Usually Miss Constable had no need to ask par- 
ticulars of her father’s movements, being almost 
always the first person to be cognizant of them. 
But on this morning her head was a blank, she 
could remember nothing. 

“ Yes, Mademoiselle,” Louise replied, Sir Ed- 
ward is going out. The meet is at Burts’ Hollow. 
Breakfast is ordered for nine o’clock.” 


84 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


Ah, yes, I remember. 

Then she had no time to lose, she must get up, 
for it was part of her household creed that when her 
father was hunting, she should always be there to 
minister to his comfort and see him safely off the 
premises. 

“ Why, Cecil,” he cried, when she went down into 
the dining-room, just as the gong was sounding, 
“ you look all eyes, you are as pale as a ghost. My 
dear, you make a vast mistake in not hunting. Why 
did you not put on your habit and come out with 
me, if it was only to the meet ? ” 

‘‘ Why, dear,” she replied, ‘‘ I didn’t feel like it — 
I have a headache, I was tired last night.” 

“ I saw uncommonly little of you last night,” said 
Sir Edward, opening his letters. 

“ I kept myself very quiet,” said Cecil. 

She was thankful that he was engrossed in his cor-- 
respondence, for she could feel the hot blood steal- 
ing up into her face and telling its own tale to any-- 
one who cared to read. 

You don’t go out enough,” he declared, ‘‘ that’s 
where the mischief is. You get mewing yourself 
up indoors ; it’s a very bad thing. What are you 
going to do to-day ? ” 

“ I am going to do nothing,” said Cecil, quietly. 

‘‘ Well, it’s a very bad thing, doing nothing. Can’t 
you ride — can’t you drive ? ” 


ONE WORD. 


85 


‘‘ Oh, I’ll take care of mjself, don’t worry about 
me. How would you like it,” she went on, as she 
carried his cup of coffee and put it down beside him, 
“ how would you like me to worry you every time 
you’ve got a twinge of the gout and tell you you 
ought to do this and you ought to do the other? 
I’ve got a headache, dear, that’s all ; there’s nothing 
particularly dangerous or mischievous about a head- 
ache.” 

“ Oh, no, no, perhaps not ; but I’m always anxious 
about you if you look a bit peaky — you know that.” 

“Yes, dear, I know,” said she, soothingly. 

She felt unusually relieved when she saw his 
square scarlet-clad shoulders disappearing down the 
long avenue. With a sigh and a flickering little 
smile, she turned from the great porch and went 
back into the house again. There was much for her 
to do, and Cecil was a methodical sort of girl, who 
never shirked any of her duties, even when she had 
•a headache. On that particular occasion, she wished 
that she had a few more duties to do, because they 
would have helped to put the time on. However, 
such as they were, she conscientiously and diligently 
got through them. 

First an interview with the cook, then an inter- 
view with the head-housemaid, then the round of 
the stables to see her ponies, and every other four- 
legged thing that they contained. Then a little tour 


86 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


round the big conservatory and some dozen or so of 
notes, which must be written that day. Yet even 
when all these were done, she had time to put on 
her hat and furs, and to go down to the head- 
keeper’s cottage to see his wife, who was ailing. 
And in spite of all these varied occupations, she had 
time to think, and think, and think, about what 
she should say to the Bishop when he came for his 
answer. 

She had eaten next to no breakfast and she ate 
next to no lunch. Her thoughts were vague, and 
confused, and chaotic. Try as she would, she could 
not get them into anything like a proper sequence, 
she could only go over the scene of the previous 
evening, think of the mellow tones of his voice, of 
the blaze in his blue eyes, of the many difficulties 
of the situation, and then shudderingly and despair- 
ingly of that one thing which had made her tell 
him that a marriage between them was impossible. 

She had come no nearer to a decision when the 
Bishop arrived. She had been sitting for an hour 
with her head held hard in her hands, at the table 
in her father’s study, when Matthew came to tell her 
that the Bishop was in the boudoir. 

“ Is he driving ? ” she asked. 

“ Yes, Miss Constable, his Lordship is driving.” 

“Well, you had better tell the coachman to put 
up, and I am not at home to anybody else.” 


ONE WORD. 


87 


“ Yerj well, ma’am,” Matthew replied. 

“And Matthew” — hesitatingly — at which Mat- 
thew turned back and waited in an attitude of re- 
spectful attention — “don’t bring tea or anything 
until I ring. If I want tea, I will ring twice ; if I 
only ring once, you will understand it is for the 
door.” 

“ Yery good, ma’am,” the man replied. 

She did not move from her place for a moment or 
so. “ I must go,” she said aloud, “ I can’t keep him 
waiting, and yet what am I to say — what shall I say 
• — what can I say ? ” She got up and went to the 
hearth looking at herself in the glass over the mantel- 
shelf. “Oh, you white-faced thing!” she cried, 
shaking her head at her own reflection, “ why need 
you look like that, you tell-tale ? ” and she pressed 
the palms of her hands hard against her cheeks. 
But it was of little use ; she brought a momentary 
patch of color, which had the efPect of making her 
look more ill than if she had left it alone ; her eyes 
were mournful and set in dark rings. 

“ It’s no use looking at myself here ; I’ll go in and 
get it over,” she exclaimed. 

She honestly meant to go in and get it over, she 
had every intention, when she went across the great 
hall and down the little passage at the end of which 
was the boudoir, of going in very quietly and in a 
firm and dignified manner, telling the Bishop that 


88 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOF. 


she was grieved and sorry to have nothing more 
agreeable to say to him, but that, for many reasons, 
it was impossible that she should become his wife 
and the mistress of the Palace. She quite meant 
to say that she hoped they would always be good 
friends, the best of friends, that there was no reason 
anyone should suspect he had spoken out to her, 
and that she would hope, with all her heart, that no 
shadow of difPerence should come between the 
friendship of her father and himself. Poor girl, she 
had been all day trying to think and now, at the 
last minute, she suddenly resolved that this was the 
only course open to her. 

But how difPerent it all was in reality. She went 
with dignity enough across the hall, but with less 
assurance down the little passage, which led to the 
boudoir. She opened the door with a trembling 
hand and went into the room, shutting- it behind 
her. At the sight of the Bishop, wdio was standing 
on the great white hearth-rug looking more like a 
giant than ever, her dignity and her resolution 
alike began to melt away. 

He came to meet her with his most deferential 
air, an air that yet was an odd mixture of confident 
tenderness and masterful possession. 

“Dearest,” he said, “you are ill. Tell me, has 
anything happened? Something 7nust have hap- 
pened to make you look like this.” 


ONE WORD. 


89 


“ Only that I did not sleep,” she answered. ‘‘ I 
did not know that I looked ill — at least, I did 
know,” she admitted, ‘‘for I looked in the glass 
just now and I thought what a fright I was.” 

“ A fright ! ” he repeated, holding both her hands 
and looking down on her with love-filled eyes, “ / 
don’t think you look a fright — though you are look- 
ing dreadfully ill. Well, and liave you made up 
your mind ? ” . 

“Yes, I had made up my mind,” she replied, 
“ when I came in here.” 

“ And you wore going to tell me ? ” 

“ I was going to tell you,” she said, trying hard 
to speak quietly and calmly, “ that what you asked 
is impossible.” 

“ But you have changed your mind ? ” he said, in 
no wise cast down by her reply. 

“ I did not say so,” said Cecil, quickly. 

“ ]N^o, but you looked it,” he rejoined promptly. 

They were still standing as they had met and he 
was still holding her hands fast in his. He could 
feel that she was trembling violently and he could 
see that she was growing whiter with each moment. 

“Don’t you think,” he said, very gently, “that 
you had better sit down ? I don’t like to see you 
like this, it distresses me. If I were not sure that 
you loved me, Cecil, I should be a brute to stay 
here at all. But it is because I am so sure of it, 


90 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP, 


that I am not willing so take the answer wliich you 
have given me. I know — I feel sure — I feel con- 
fident that you love me with your whole heart. 
Don’t think I am a braggart, I only tell you hon- 
estly my convictions, and until you can look me in 
the eyes and say that you positively do not love me, 
I shall not be content to take that other answer. I 
know that you will not do that,” he added, in a 
more gentle tone. 

“ I am not fit to marry you,” she said, in a dull 
voice, “ I am not good enough to be a Bishop’s 
wife. I would rather that you would go away 
and say no moi’e about it. Yes, I mean it, really. 
Bishop, I would much, I would rather, far rather, 
that you would go away now and never mention 
the subject to me again.” 

“ But you have not told me that one thing,” he 
said masterfully. ‘‘ My dear child, why, when that 
one word will send me away, why don’t you say it, 
if you really want me to go? ” 

The teai-s came into her eyes and her lips began 
to quiver, she wrenched one of her hands free from 
his and began to grope blindly for the scrap of lace 
and cambric, which she called her handkerchief. 

“ No,” he said, taking the hand prisoner again, 
“ no, you are not going to hide yourself behind a 
handkerchief; if you will say that one word, I will 
go away now, I will never approach the subject 


ONE WORD. 


91 


again, I will never remind you of it in any way. 
But I tell you honestly that I will not go away for 
anything else. Now, come, it is quite easy to say 
if you really want to say it. Just four words.” 

She made no resistance, she in no wise attempted 
to struggle for freedom, but the tears overflowed 
her eyes and she bent her head until it almost 
touched his breast. 

‘‘ Come,” he said, with inflnite tenderness and 
patience, “ when are you going to say it ? ” 

“ I can’t say it — you know I can’t,” she cried 
passionately and with deep reproach ; “ I would if I 
could, because I believe it would be kinder to you. 
I believe, if I could only force myself to do it, that 
it would be less wicked to lie to you, than to tell 
you the truth. But I can’t tell you a lie — I can’t 
tell you I don’t love you. I do love you — and — 
you — know — it.” 

It seemed to tlie Bishop that there was no need 
of any further argument; the woman he loved, 
loved him, and that was enough. It was no use to 
say anything more about it. What, indeed, was 
there to say ? 

As for Cecil, her confession seemed to have lifted 
a great load of difficulties off her heart. The storm 
of doubt and reluctance had passed, and she suffered 
herself to be soothed and made much of, as if she 
were a child that had suffered some hurt. After 


92 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


the long hours of doubt and distress through which 
she had passed, it was eminently comfortable to her 
to be taken possession of as he, with a strong man’s 
instinct of protecting the woman he loves, even 
from natural fatigue and anxiety, took possession of 
her. 

He drew her on to the wide and roomy couch, 
and settled her comfortably among the silken 
cushions. And there they sat and talked, and talked, 
and talked — or, at least, I should more truly say 
there they sat and he talked, and talked, and talked 
— until the fire had burnt low in the grate and the 
dusk of the wintry afternoon had deepened into 
darkness. 

“ I want to know,” said the Bishop, presently, 
“ what you have been doing all day. I have a sort 
of instinct that you have had nothing to eat.” 

‘‘ I haven’t,” she admitted. 

“Ah, I thought as much. You are still very 
pale, although you are looking better than you did 
when I came. What there can be about me,” he 
added, drawing her near to him, “ to have taken 
away your appetite and kept 3^011 awake all night, 
and otherwise made you thoroughly miserable and 
uncomfortable and ill, I cannot imagine. J^ow, if I 
may ring the bell, we will get the excellent Matthew 
to bring some tea, and to mend that fire, and gene- 
rally to minister to us. May I ring it ? ” 


ONE WORD. 


93 


“ Yes, of course you may,” she answered. “ King 
it twice ; that will mean that he is to bring tea.” 

‘‘ I suppose your father won’t be back for ever so 
long ? ” he said, as he rose and touched the bell 
twice. 

Oh, I think he may be very late to-night. It 
depends, of course, upon which way they run from 
Burts’ Hollow, and, of course, if he goes in the other 
direction, lie may be ever so late.” 

“ I may stay and see him, of course ? ” 

‘‘ Why, yes.” 

“ But tell me — when lie gets in from hunting, is 
he tired usually — will he feel inclined to break my 
head for broaching the subject ? ” 

“I don’t think so,” she said, smiling. “Father 
is very reasonable.” 

“ Which is more than his daughter is sometimes,” 
said the Bishop slyly. 

“ Oh, his daughter has many faults and many 
failings, you will find them all out, by and by,” 
she returned. “His daughter pities you with all 
her heart.” 

“ I am quite willing to take the chance of need- 
ing her pity,” said the Bishop promptly. 

Then Matthew brought the tea and a couple of 
silver lamps, and, with a reproachful air, mended 
the fire and tidied up the hearth. 

“ Oh, Matthew,” said Miss Constable, “ I think 


94 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


you had better lay another cover for dinner to- 
night. You will wait to see my father, however 
late he is ? ” she added, turning to the Bishop. 

“Yes, I would rather see him to-night, if pos- 
sible.” 

“ You are not dining out — I mean, if he is very 
late, you will stay and dine ?” 

“ If you will excuse my dress,” he replied. 

“ Oh, yes, I will excuse you. Then, Matthew, lay 
another cover, and take care of the coachman — you 
understand.” 

“ Perfectly, ma’am.” 

His tone was indeed so comprehensive, that the 
Bishop laughed outright when the door closed be- 
hind him. 

“ I should think that fellow did understand,” he 
said, standing up and looking very big and impor- 
tant over the little tea-table. “How, my dearest, 
you take sugar and you like your cream put in first ; 
how much of it ? ” 

“You’re not going to make the tea?” she ex- 
claimed. 

“ Why not ? I passed a very good night ; I ate a 
very good breakfast, and I ate a very fair lunch, 
and I was pretty sure what would happen this after- 
noon. How you, on the contrary, have worn your- 
self to fiddle-strings, and you look like a ghost more 
or less, and you’ve had nothing to eat, and no sleep, 


ONE WORD, 


95 


and therefore you deserve to be waited on. To- 
night I am going to wait upon and attend to you. 
Sugar ? ” 

“ But you look so ridiculous,” cried Cecil. 

“ Perhaps I do — I wish you would give me the 
information about the sugar ” 

“ No, I don’t take sugar,” said Cecil. 

“Ah, well, I do — I do ; and plenty of it. Cream 
— how much of it ? ” 

“Oh, a fair amount. Well, now, that really is 
nice. Do you think you will always be so obliging 
as to pour out my tea and wait hand and foot upon 
me ? ” 

“ I think so,” he answered. “ I am big enough, 
and strong enough, and hard enough, to work like 
a galley slave — which, by the way, I don’t do — and, 
in my opinion, men ought to wait upon their wives 
— it’s the right sort of thing to do. In this country 
there’s a great deal too much of ‘the white slave 
who wears a wedding ring.’ ” 

“ But you may get tired sometimes,” said Cecil. 

“ Oh yes, and when I am very tired, if it will 
please you, you shall wait upon me. But when it 
pleases you to look like a ghost, then it will be my 
pleasure to wait upon you.” 

lie certainly waited upon her then most assidu- 
ously. And, presently, when the discreet Mat- 
thew had reappeared and had taken away the 


96 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


tea-tray and the little tea-table, the roses began to 
bloom out again upon her milk-white cheeks, and 
the dark shadows under her eyes seemed to have 
been chased away by the sudden blaze of love’s 
sunshine. 


CHAPTER VII. 


MY HOMAGE TO YOH. 

“ After dark night cometh the joyful morrow” ; 

So follow joys upon the track of sorrow.” 

—Chaucer. 

“Ask, and it shall be given to you.” 

— Luke, 

It was close upon seven o’clock before Sir Edward 
Constable readied liome. He was very muddy and 
very tired, and in that pleasant frame of mind 
whicli is generally brought about by a real good 
day’s sport. As soon as he entered the house, he 
inquired of Matthew where Miss Constable was. 
As a matter of fact, she usually came to meet him 
and her not doing so made him somewhat fearful 
lest her morning’s headache should have deepened 
into a serious illness. 

“ Miss Constable is in the boudoir, Sir Edward,” 
the discreet Matthew replied, with an apologetic 
cough ; then added, like an after thought, “ and the 
Bishop is with her.” 

7 


98 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOR 


‘‘The Eisliop. Oh — Oli — then I’ll just look in 
before I go upstairs.” 

He tramped across the hall and down the passage 
to Cecil’s sanctum. 

“ I heard you were here, Bishop ; how d’ye do ? ” 
he said, with his cheeriest welcome. “ I thought I 
would come in on my way to get rid of this mud. 
Well, Cecil, my dear,” putting his arm round his 
daughter and looking at her affectionately, “ how’s 
the headache ? ” 

“It’s all gone, thank you, dear Dad,” she an- 
swered. “ Did you have a good run ? ” 

“ Oh, splendid — never better — splendid.” 

“The Bishop is going to stay to dinner,” Cecil 
announced, looking from one to the other. 

“Is he? Ah, that’s good news. You’ll never 
stay too often for me, you know. Bishop.” 

“ Well the fact is. Sir Edward, I wanted to have 
a talk to you, and as Miss Constable was good 
enough to ask me to stay ” 

“And take pot-luck,” put in Cecil, with a laugh. 

“ Yes, and take pot-luck — I ventured to run the 
risk of your being too tired to be troubled with 
me.” 

“ I ? Oh, not at all. I am not one of those 
brutes who are unapproachable for the rest of the 
day whenever they are out of the saddle. If hunt- 
ing had that effect upon me, I should give it up. 


MY HOMAGE TO YOU. 


99 


On the contrary, Pm never so amiable as when Pve 
had a good day’s run, — eh, Cecil ? ” 

“Well,” said Cecil, “I think you are generally 
amiable enough, whether you’ve had a good day’s 
run or not.” 

“ There now, you see the character my daughter 
gives me. Fine thing when your daughter gives 
you a good character — eh, Bishop ? ” 

“ A very fine thing,” said the Bishop smiling. 

“ Well, I suppose we’re dining at half-past seven 
as usual, my child ? ” 

“ Yes, dear, half-past seven as usual.” 

“Then you will be going to dress?” 

“ Yes, dear, I am going to dress now,” she re- 
plied. 

“Very good. Then, Bishop, you’ll come up to 
my room, won’t you ? ” 

“ With pleasure,” replied the Bishop. 

The two men went up the great staircase together. 
The Bishop had never been on the upper story 
before. He found that the arrangement there was 
very much the same as in most country houses. 
A wide staircase, branching off on either side, a 
broad gallery with a railing running round the en- 
tire hall and several corridors leading to the many 
bedrooms. Sir Edward led the way down one of 
these corridors and opened a door on the right. 

“ This way,” he said. 


100 


TEE SOUL OF TEE BISEOP. 


The Bishop found himself in a large and hand- 
some room with a large bed, covered with many- 
colored embroideries, a cheerful fire burning in the 
grate, and a couple of easy-chairs drawn near to it. 
Between the windows was a smart dressing-table, 
set out with every requisite for a man’s toilet. 

“ Now, Bishop,” said Sir Edward, ‘‘ make your- 
self at home and I’ll get these muddy clothes off 
and have my tub within ten minutes.” 

He really was not longer than ten minutes, but 
when the Bishop had washed his hands and had 
brushed his fair hair into a smooth sweep across his 
forehead, he had time to look round the room and 
take note of the pictures which adorned the cheer- 
ful walls. There was a large looking-glass with an 
overmantel over the mantel-shelf, whose principal 
adornment seemed to be many photographs of the 
only child of the house. There was one miniature 
in a gold frame, unmistakably a portrait of her 
mother ; but all the rest were of Cecil. Cecil as a 
little chubby baby, with very little to show in the 
way of wardrobe ; Cecil as a tot of about two, in a 
white lace pinafore ; Cecil with a kitten ; Cecil 
with a couple of dogs ; Cecil in a donkey-cart ; 
Cecil on a pony ; Cecil in fancy dress ; and Cecil in 
a court gown, with the usual misty finish of feath- 
ers and veil, which made the Bishop look at it with 
interest and picture her in his mind as a bride. 


M7 HOMAGE TO YOU. 


101 


He was still standing looking at the photographs, 
when Sir Edward, looking very spruce, not to say 
parboiled, in his trousers and a clean white shirt, 
came in fastening his braces. 

“ Ah, you’re looking at my gallery, Bishop,” he 
said, in genial tones. 

“ Yes, you have a good many portraits of the 
same subject,” the Bishop replied. 

“Well, you see, one’s only child is one’s only 
child, and my girl’s all I have got in the world — 
that I care about. By the bye, Bishop, will you 
have a cigarette before dinner?” 

“ I shouldn’t object to one,” the Bishop admit- 
ted. 

“ Ho, I thought not — you’re a sensible man,” 
handing him a silver cigarette-box. “ You’ll find 
matches in that little pail affair on the mantel- 
shelf. You wanted to see me on business ? ” he re- 
marked, as he held out his wrist for his servant to 
fasten his buttons. 

“Well, I wanted to see you,” said the Bishop — 
“ yes, I suppose it is on business, but I’m not in a 
hurry about that ; by and by will do very well.” 

“ Oh, I see — all right. By the bye, Badger, you 
may as well go down now, I shall not want any- 
thing else.” 

He buttoned his collar as he spoke, and began to 
arrange his tie into its usual neat bow. It was only 


102 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


a black tie, such as he wore usually, but the Bishop 
had not worn collars for so long that he began to 
discuss the most serious matter of his life at that 
moment. 

‘‘Upon my soul,’’ said Sir Edward, after a mo- 
ment’s intense silence, “ I don’t wonder that men 
take to those things that hitch on behind ; I think 
I shall come to it sooner or later.” 

The Bishop laughed. “ I don’t see why you 
shouldn’t,” he said. “ A bow made by a profes- 
sional and sewed up tight, must be just as good as a 
bow made by yourself and fastened with a pin that 
pricks your fingers.” 

“Yes, there’s something in that” — then a pause 
and a sigh of relief — “There.! It’s done at last. 
Now, I’ll have a cigarette.” He stood on the wide 
hearth-rug while he lighted it. “Would you rather 
your business would keep or is it short enough to 
tell me now? ” he asked, after he had drawn a whiff 
or two from the little cigarette. 

“ Oh, it’s short enough,” said the Bishop, leaning 
back in liis chair and surveying Sir Edward with 
steady eyes. “ I want something, of course.” 

“ Oh, of course,” said Sir Edward, “ naturally. Is 
it the AVest front? — no, that’s the Dean’s business. 
Is it hospitals or institutes ? — I don’t think I take 
much interest in institutes. Perhaps it’s ” 

“No, it isn’t any of those things,” said the 


MY HOMAGE TO YOU, 


103 


Bishop quietly. “ As a matter of fact, I want 
Cecil.” 

“ What ! ” 

‘‘I want Cecil.” 

Sir Edward stared at him. 

“ You want Cecil,” incredulously, “ my daughter 
— my girl ? ” 

‘‘ Yes,” said the Bishop. ‘‘ There is nothing very 
wonderful about my wanting her, is there?” 

‘‘Well, no, I don’t know that there is, but you 
surprised me, that’s all.” 

“ Perhaps you’re astonished that Cecil wants me,” 
said the Bishop, his eyes beginning to twinkle. 

“ Oh, no, I’m not surprised at all. But — then 
there was somethino: in it last niojlit ? ” 

“There was a good deal in it,” said the Bishop, 
looking at the ends of his fingers. 

“Why, she told me this morning positively and 
apparently decidedly that there was no truth in the 
rumor.” 

“Well, you see, she hadn’t said ‘yes’ this 
morning.” 

“ And she has this afternoon ? ” 

“ Well,” said the Bishop in a tone of quiet tri- 
umph, “yes. Sir Edward, she has said ‘yes’ this 
afternoon. I — of course, I am very anxious for 
your consent,” getting up and standing with one 
elbow on the edge of the mantel-shelf. “I don’t 


104 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP, 


think I need go into any details of my position or 
my means. I am a fairly rich man, yon know, 
and ” 

‘‘ Oh, that’s nothing,” said Sir Edward, “ that’s 
nothing. Cecil would have plenty apart from that. 
Your feelings are the greatest consideration — the 
greatest consideration of all — excepting hers.” 

“I think you may rest satisfied on both those 
points,” said the Bishop deliberately. “ For myself 
I may as well tell you frankly that I have been in 
love with Cecil ever since the first time I set eyes 
upon her, and I don’t think that there was any 
doubt of Cecil’s feelings for me. Of course, I am 
older than she is — I am turned forty-two and she is 
only five and twenty.” 

“But if she doesn’t mind that, I can’t raise any 
objection,” said Sir Edward sensibly enough. “ Of 
course, you know, Bishop, it’s no use my pretending 
I like losing my daughter, because I don’t — but 
she’s young and she’s exceedingly good-looking, and 
she is as good as she looks. Never was a girl of 
a sweeter character than mine, though I say it who 
shouldn’t perhaps. And, of course, I’ve known all 
along that this would come sooner or later, though I 
confess I had not hoped it would be you. You see, 
she hasn’t been brought up much among parsons 
and I never thought of her marrying one, but if 
she’s happy, I am more than content. And I’m 


MY HOMAGE TO YOU. 


105 


glad it’s you. Bishop, I respect you aud I like you — 
I think you’re a fine fellow, I’m proud to have you 
for my son-in-law and I shall be glad to have my 
girl so near me and — and I wish you joy, old 
fellow,” suddenly putting out his hand and grasp- 
ing the Bishop’s heartily. “ I wish you joy, I 
couldn’t have given my consent with more pleasure. 
Hang it all, I know you’ll make her a good husband 
and I know she’ll make you a good wife — a good 
daughter makes a good wife — and I’m very pleased 
and I’m very proud and — I’m very hungry — let me 
get into my coat and let’s go down to dinner, I’m 
starving — I’m ravenous.” 

But the Bishop held Sir Edward’s hand hard for 
a moment. 

“ Thank yon. Sir,” he said. “ I have no words 
in which to express my gratitude for your kindness.” 

And then Sir Edward hemmed and hawed a lit- 
tle and fussed into his coat and led the way down- 
stairs. 

They found Cecil already before them. She had 
chanored her morning frock for a white one and was 
sitting comfortably on the padded rail of the fen- 
der which guarded the hall-fire, looking at the pict- 
ures of an illustrated paper. 

Well, Pussy-cat,” said Sir Edward, putting his 
arm round her, “ and what have you got to say for 
yourself ? ” 


106 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


‘‘ Well, I don’t know that I have anything to say 
for myself,” she said smiling. 

‘‘No? Well, I have heard the wonderful news 
and, of course, I sent your Bishop packing.” 

“ Oh, did you ? ” lifting her i-adiant eyes to his. 
“ I don’t think so. Daddy — I don’t think it looks 
like it.” 

“ Well, it doesn’t, my dear. In short, I re- 
versed the usual order of things and gave him my 
blessing instead of his blessing me ; and we’ll 
drink your health presentl}^ in a bottle of the best 
Clicquot that there is in the cellar.” 

He bent down and kissed her and Cecil put 
her arm round his neck and whispered, “ Dear 
Daddy,” with something like a sob in her throat. 
But it was not a sob of grief in any sense, and 
when, five minutes later, Matthew informed them 
that dinner was served, it was a very gay and 
happy trio that sat down to the table to partake 
of it. 

“Matthew,” said Sir Edward when the fish had 
been handed, “ bring up a bottle of that best 
Clicquot.” 

“ The 18 — , Sir Edward ? ” said Matthew in an 
undertone. 

“ Yes, a bottle of that — we’ve got to drink a 
health to-night.” 

The comprehensive Matthew went put and told 


MY HOMAGE TO YOU, 107 

his particular clinm the cook tliat “Something is up 
between our young Miss and the Bishop.” 

“ Never — you don’t say so,” said the cook incred- 
ulously. 

“Well the Governor’s ordered a bottle of the 
18 — and we haven’t got above five or six dozen of 
it left. I don’t think he’d order it up for nothing, 
and I don’t think thej^’d ask the Bishop to stop like 
this without any invite — and besides they look like 
it.” 

“Lor’, you don’t say so!” exclaimed the cook, 
with every sign of astonishment. 

“ Well, you’ll see,” said Matthew knowingly. 

Sure enough the next time that Matthew came 
into the great kitchen lie brought with him the as- 
surance that his suspicions were true. 

“ It’s as I said, Mrs. Fincher,” he declared tri- 
umphantly, “ it’s a case. As soon as I’d filled the 
glasses. Sir Edward looked at Miss Constable and 
then at the Bishop and says ’e ‘My best wishes for 
your ’appiness,’ and tlie Bishop ’e said ‘Thank you.’ 
And then ’e lifted his glass and looked across at 
Miss Constable and ’e said, ‘ My homage to you.’ 
And Miss Constable she just went red and then 
white and looked as if she was going to cry, and 
then she laughed and then she said ‘ Thank you, 
dear Daddy,’ and then she looked across at ’im and 
she said nothing, but she looked — Oh my,” said 


108 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


Matthew, “ I have never seen our young Miss look 
like that afore.’’ 

“ You don’t say so — well I never ! ” said the cook 
amid a chorus of like ejaculations from half a dozen 
maids standing by. 

‘‘ And then Sir Edward ’e says, ‘ Matthew,’ says 
’e, ‘let the servants have champagne for their sup- 
per to-night, and they’ll oblige me by drinking Miss 
Constable’s ’ealth and the Bishop’s, and we’re going 
to have a wedding, Matthew, and I shall be glad if 
they’ll add their good wishes to mine.’ And then I 
bowed and I says, ‘Might I make so bold as to offer 
mine first?’ And Miss Constable she puts out ’er 
’and and she says, ‘ Thank you, Matthew, thank 
you.’ And the Bishop ’e got on to his feet and ’e 
made me a bow, as if I’d been a lord, and ’e says, 
‘ Matthew, I’m much obliged to you.’ And damn 
him, ’e’s a swell,” said Matthew, suddenly getting 
enthusiastic, “ no snivelling parson about him, he 
spoke to me just as if I’d been a dook.” 

“ There now,” said the cook with a suspicions lit- 
tle sniffle, raising her apron to her eyes, “ that’s the 
way with real gentlefolk. I’m sure, poor young 
things, I wish them all the joy in life.” 

“Well, I don’t think you can exactly call the 
Bishop a ‘ young thing,’ ” said the head housemaid. 

“ Lor’, they’re all young things when they’re just 
entering matrimony,” said the cook wiping the 


MY HOMAGE TO YOU. 


109 


other eje, “ I’ve been through it. I’m sure wlien 
mj poor ’nsband, what’s been dead and gone these 
twenty years — but there, if I once get to talking 
about my poor ’usband my chocolate souffle will be 
done to a bit of leather — I wishes ’em joy, Mat- 
thew, that’s all I’ve got to say — I wishes ’em 

joy-” 

If the truth be toldj the almost involuntary and 
wholly spontaneous courtesy of the Bishop to Mat- 
thew, who had been some fifty years man and boy 
at Raburn, pi‘oved almost too much for Cecil, and 
went very near to breaking her down altogether. 
It would be difficult to express the gush of wild 
love which flooded into her heart as she perceived 
the act of courtesy from the man to whom she had 
just given herself, toward one who though highly 
valued by her father and herself, was yet by many 
degrees their social inferior. She looked across the 
table with an indescribable expression of ineffable 
love and tenderness and she half stretched out her 
hand, as if she needed the sympathy of touch ; then 
drew it back and smiled, with the tears very near to 
her eyes. 

Nothing was lost upon the Bishop. He was a 
man who missed few opportunities, a man with eyes 
in his mind as well as in his head. He knew what 
the look meant and the little flutter of her hand, 
and he looked across at her with a smile, and bent 


110 


TEE SOUL OF THE BISHOP, 


Ins head slightly in acknowledgment of her word- 
less wish. 

Sir Edward, on the contrary, who was within 
reach of the Bishop, did not keep back his thoughts. 
As soon as Matthew had hurried out of the room 
he put out his left hand and said, “ Thank you for 
that, Bishop, thank you.” 

So the joyous meal passed over, and presently 
Cecil left them and went off to the boudoir by her- 
self. 

A minute or two later Sir Edward looked up at 
the Bishop. 

“ You know you needn’t stand on ceremony with 
me. Bishop,” he said kindly. “ I am pretty tired, 
and I shall have forty winks in the big chair there, 
before I move. If you want to go, don’t mind me.” 

“Sir Edward,” said the Bishop, getting up as 
eagerly as a schoolboy, “ there’s only one way in 
which I can thank you for all your goodness to me, 
and that is the way that I know you will like best, 
by trying to make Cecil happy.” 


r 


CHAPTER YIII. 


A STEAIGHT QUESTIOIT. 


** The child-like faith, that asks not sight, 
Believes, because it loves, aright.” 


— Keblb. 


“But foolish and unlearned questions avoid, knowing that 
they do engender strifes.” 

— Timothy. 


The engagement did not create mucli stir in 
Elankliampton. For one thing rumors had been 
very freely circulated during the day following the 
Hospital Ball, to the effect that the Bishop had cer- 
tainly proposed to Miss Constable, of Raburn, dur- 
ino^ the evening. One faction said that she had 
refused him, while another declared that she had 
accepted him, so that by the time the engagement 
was really announced, the pros and cons of it as a 
possibility had been very freely discussed and the 
alliance looked at from every possible standpoint. 

But I think that nobody was sorry when it was 
actually made known as an accomplished fact. 
Everybody liked the Bishop, and everybody liked 


112 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP, 


the Constables, while those who did not know them 
felt that tlie standing of the newly betrothed pair 
was very suitable one to the other. It is true 
that the sentimental Maria, who had been among 
those who attended the private view of the newly 
furnished Palace, gave a little sigh for the memory 
of a dream that had been very pleasant, very harm- 
less and very unreal. It was hard that every young 
woman of marriageable age had not been born a 
Miss Constable, of Paburn, for, although the senti- 
mental Maria was beyond the actual meridian of 
life, at the same time she still regarded herself as 
a young person of marriageable age, and generally 
called herself a girl. 

When Maria heard the news, she gave a little 
gasp and suffered a few pangs, as if the Bishop — to 
whom she had never spoken — had indeed actually 
belonged to her, and as if the rich Miss Constable, 
of Baburn, had actually done her a grievous wrong. 
Poor Maria, it did not last. Her harmless little 
day-dream faded awaj^, and left her with a kind of 
feeling that she had a right to take more interest in 
the Bishop’s engagement and approaching marriage 
than an^mne else. There are many Marias in this 
world — unappropriated blessings who would make 
good and devoted wives, but who never have the 
opportunity of proving of what stuff they are made. 
Poor Maria ! 


A £fTBAIffIir QUESTION. 113 

A few days after that first evening the Bishop 
and Sir Edward had a long talk together of a 
strictly business kind. You see with a man so rich, 
and a bride so well dowered, there were naturally a 
good many arrangements to make, which do not 
enter into the calculations of the ordinary girl, who 
takes with her to her new home little more than 
her bridal trousseau and her wedding presents. It 
was then about the middle of February, and the 
Bishop was naturally not anxious to have a long 
engagement ; the wedding, therefore, was fixed to 
take place during the week after Easter, which that 
year fell rather late. Had it not been for Lent in- 
tei’vening, I think that he would have begged hard 
for the shortest engagement possible for them to 
have. As it was, however, the season made it 
absolutely impossible for him to be married until 
Easter had come and gone. 

Now the Bishop was not a very High Churchman, 
but he was by no means a Low one, so that when 
Cecil told him that her father wished to give a large 
dinner-party by way of announcing their engage- 
ment, he looked at her with concerned eyes. 

“ Dearest, I don’t see how I can come.” 

“Why not?” she asked. “We will make our 
date to suit your arrangements.” 

“ But it is Lent,” he replied. 

The girl’s face fell. 

8 


114 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


‘‘ I don’t quite see, Archie,” she said (she liad long 
ago taken to calling him Archie), “1 don’t quite see 
what Lent has to do with your going to a dinner- 
party.” 

“ But,” he answered, “ I have never gone out to 
entertainments during Lent in my life.” 

“ But surely this is a separate occasion,” she urged. 

“ Well, that is so, but I really can’t — at least, I 
don’t see how I could — break my rule. If there is 
any good in keeping Lent at all, there must be more 
reason now than ever for not breaking my regular 
habit.” 

“ But you want to come, don’t you ? ” she asked. 

“Yes, I would like to come, of course I would 
like to come ; but that is the more reason why I 
should not do so.” 

“ But you are dming here to-night ! ” she cried. 

“I know it, my dearest, 1 know it — but that is 
not like a dinner-party.” 

“You enjoy yourself to-night as much as you 
would do if there were forty people here, do you 
not ? ” 

“ Quite as much.” 

“ Then where is the difPerence ? ” 

“ I do not know,” he said uneasily. “ If you put 
it in that way, I shall have to give up coming alto- 
gether.” 

“ I don’t think,” she said thoughtfully, “ that you 


J STRAIGHT qUESTIOH 


115 


ought to have engaged yourself to me just before 
Lent if you meant Lent to interfere with proper 
attention to me, and it is a proper attention to me 
that you should meet my friends and my father’s 
friends as my future husband. If it were not Lent 
it would be a perfectly natural thing for my father 
to give a dinner-party in order to formally announce 
our engagement, and I don’t think it is at all right 
to slight me because of the season of the year.” 

“ But, my darling,” he exclaimed, “you keep Lent 
in some way yourself, surely ? ” 

“Never,” she answered, “never. I believe in 
being good all the year round. If it is wrong to eat 
your dinner in company in Lent it is wrong to eat 
your dinner any day. I think good people ought to 
carry a .certain amount of Lent with them always. 
I may be wrong — I don’t say that I am right — but 
I cannot see that you would do any harm by 
going to a dinner-party, because it happens to be 
Lent — no, I cannot. Why,” she urged, “ you would 
like to have been married earliei’, if it had not been 
for Lent. Why, what difference does it — can it 
make ? ” 

“It makes all the difference,” he answered. 

“ If you were bidden to perform the ceremony at 
a royal wedding, you would do it whether it was in 
Lent or not ? ” 

“ I dare say I should.” 


116 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


“ Of course you would. They have their weddings 
in Lent. If it is wrong to marry in Lent or to 
take any pleasure in Lent, why do you great dig- 
nitaries of the Church encourage princes to do the 
very things you regard as wicked for yourselves to 
do?” 

“My dear child,” he said, drawing her near to 
him, “ I don’t think that we need split upon that 
rock. After all, there is no essential virtue in the 
keeping of Lent — I believe it is a good thing for 
everybody to do, because the rush of life is so great 
and the pleasures of the world so entrancing — to all 
of us — that it must be, nay it is, a good thing to 
pull ourselves up short sometimes, and taking a rest 
from these worldly enjoyments, search ourselves and 
make sure whether we are going upward or down- 
ward. It is good to have such periods now and 
again during the year, and surely no season can be 
so fitting as that which immediately precedes Good 
Friday and Easter.” 

“ But,” said Cecil, looking at him with her lovely 
eyes, “you are not going to give up loving me 
because it is Lent ?” 

“ Why, no,” he answered. 

“ You don’t mean that you are going to give up 
certain times, when you would naturally come to see 
me, by way of mortifying yourself ? ” 

“ Not at all,” lie replied. “ I have never told you 


A STJiAIGIIT QUESTION, 


117 


that I believe in self-mortification as a proper way 
of spending Lent.” 

“ Then why give up a dinner-party ? ” she asked. 

“ Why ? Because it is iny custom — it is my 
habit, I would prefer not to take part in any social 
gayeties during this time, that is all. I don’t think 
it would be wicked to do as you wish.” 

“Then don’t you think that under the circum- 
stance of our having only just become engaged, and 
the fact that we are going to be married so soon, 
would make it admissible for you to break your rule, 
in this one instance? ” 

“Certainly, I think it would be quite admissible, 
and if you seriously ask me to do it, I will come ; but 
I hope,” looking gravely and earnestly at her, 
“ I hope, with all my heart and soul, that you will 
not ask me to do it.” 

“1^0,” she said, with a sudden change of tone, 
“ I won’t ask you. I will never ask you to do what 
you believe to be against your best interests. But,” 
with a burst of contrition, “ already, you see that it 
is as I told you — I am not fit to be your wife — I am 
not half good enough for you. But I will never ask 
you to go against what you believe to be right, I 
never will.” 

I think if the Bishop had become engaged to 
Miss Constable at any other time of the year, that 
the course of their true love would have run 


118 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


smoothly to the final consummation, and I should 
probably have had no further story to relate to you. 
They would, it is more than likely, have been 
married after an engagement of only a month or six 
weeks, and every available moment of the Bishop’s 
spare time would have been filled in with con- 
gratulatory parties, and such time as he had not 
to spare would have been filled in by the bride- 
elect, with all manner of shopping and sucli-like 
personal ari'angernents. 

As it happened, how^ever, to have been brought 
about just before Lent, there was no possible ques- 
tion — the bridegroom being a Bishop — of the 
marriage taking place until Easter was well turned, 
and therefore their engagement was an exceedingly 
trying time to both of them. 

For one thing, although the Bishop was despe- 
rately in love with his betrothed, there were many 
duties attached to his ofiice which could not be 
ignored, and which he had not the smallest wish to 
ignore. For instance, for months previous to his 
engagement, he had been booked for various sets 
of sermons and, as a matter of fact, had very few 
unoccupied evenings to put at her disposal. When 
he had an evening to call his own, he religiously 
dined at Raburn. He refused the many invitations 
which were sent to him by way of specially marking 
the great event, and as he generally went over to 


A STRAIGHT QUESTION. 


119 


Raburn on the days when he was not preaching at 
night, he passed a good part of the nights doing the 
work which, at an ordinary time, he would have 
done during the da3\ 

It is astonishing how rumor spreads. When the 
first flush of excitement at the engagement had 
passed off, the people in the county said to each 
other that Miss Constable was marrying for posi- 
tion. And there was some ground for such a ru- 
mor, for the Bishop was radiant, and Cecil herself 
looked wretched and, as the dull heavy Lenten days 
passed over, the cloud seemed in no way to be lifted 
from her eyes. 

Her life at that time was a strange dual kind of 
existence. When the Bishop was at Baburn, she 
was filled wdtli the wildest spirits, which, when she 
was out of his presence, seemed to go down to zero, 
and, indeed, even lower than those frozen depths. 

“ Did you ever see a girl look so wretched as 
Cecil Constable ? ” said Lady Lucifer one da}^ at an 
afternoon party in Blankhampton, to Lady Vivian. 
‘‘ I am sure there is something wrong there.” 

She looks very ill,” said Lady Vivian, guardedly. 
Hot for a moment would she admit that there could 
be anything wrong about the engagement itself. 
‘‘ But don’t }^ou think that girls nearly always do 
look ill at these times? I am sure her position 
must be most trying, particularly with a man of the 


120 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


Bishop’s eminence — yon see, poor girl, the eyes of 
the whole county are upon her.” 

“ Yes, that is so, but at the same time, what 
need Cecil mind if the eyes of the whole world are 
upon her ? She has always been used to being a 
person of importance,” returned Lady Lucifer ; “ I 
am certain that is not the secret of her wan 
looks.” 

Kow, the Lady of Ingleb}^ was not a brilliant 
woman, not by any means. She seldom, except on 
the subject of a possible marriage, thought out any 
fresh ideas for herself ; but once implant an idea 
in her mind, be it ever so slight a suggestion, and 
she was ready to follow it up, like a beagle on the 
trail of a red-heri-ing. 

She took the first opportunity of mildly and deli- 
catel}^ questioning Cecil on the subject of her ap- 
proaching marriage ; indeed, she made it her special 
business to drive over to Baburn, and was lucky 
enough to find Miss Constable at home. 

“ I don’t think you’re looking very well, Cecil,” 
she remarked, in her blandest manner, when she 
had inquired after Sir Edward’s health — Sir Edward 
was hunting, as usual. 

“ Oh, don’t you think so ? ” said Cecil, “ I feel all 
right, thanks. You know it has been a damp win- 
ter ; a little frost and snow would do me more good 
than anything else.” 


A STUAIOHT QUESTION", 


121 


“ It has been a trying winter, that’s time,” said 
Lady Vivian, in reply, “ and, of course, it is often 
very trying to be engaged.” 

Oh, 1 don’t know about that,” said Cecil, laugh- 
ing, though she changed color a little. 

Nevertheless, there was something a little forced 
about the laugh, and Lady Vivian, little observant 
as she was, noticed it. 

“ You are very happy in this marriage, Cecil ? ” 
she remarked. 

“ Oh, very,” the girl replied. 

But the tone, somehow, did not satisfy Lady 
Vivian, and she pursued the subject still further. 

“ A most lovable man,” she remarked. 

“ Oh, Lady Vivian,” Cecil cried, “ he is the best 
man I have ever known in my life.” 

“ Yes, dear, but I don’t know that even that is 
quite everything, is it? I mean — well, it is rather 
difficult to explain what I do mean — but, of course, 
when you’re thinking of marriage, you may be 
thoroughly impressed with a man’s goodness and all 
that, and yet feel that something else is wanting.” 

“ No,” said Cecil, “ nothing else is wanting. The 
Bishop is as nearly perfect as a man can be. If I 
were not afi’aid that you would laugh at me, I would 
say that he is quite perfect.” 

“ I shall not laugh at you,” said Lady Vivian, 
with dignity. 


122 


TEE SOUL OF TEE BISHOP. 


“ No, dear Lady Vivian, I know you won’t — 
didn’t mean to imply that you would. I know 
exactly what is in your mind,” smiling at her and 
holding out a slender white hand toward her, “ I 
know so well just what people are saying. I am 
not looking very well — I don’t know that I am very 
well — and the Bishop is preaching here, there, and 
everywhere — and he doesn’t go out to dinner in 
Lent — and people put two and two togather, and 
they think that I am not happy in my engagement 
and in the prospect of my marriage, and they think 
perhaps that I am marrying him because he is the 
Bishop of Blankhampton. Oh, yes, I have seen it 
in people’s looks, I know so well what they are 
all saying — they think that I am not reallj^ and gen- 
uinely in love with him. Well, dear Lady Vivian, 
you’ve always been good to me, and you always have 
a tender place in your heart for people who love 
each other, haven’t you ? Then yon may tell every- 
body — everybody who is interested in knowing — 
that I am madly, wildly, passionately in love with 
my Bishop. If I look ill or I do not look happ}^ 
that has nothing to do with him. I am not very 
well, and I am not sleeping, and I am tremendously 
impressed with the responsibility that I have taken 
upon myself — but, so far as he is concerned, I have 
only one feeling, which is that I am not half good 
enough for him.” 


A 8TRAI0HT QUESTION^, 


123 


Oil, don’t saj that, Cecil,” Lady Yivian ex- 
claimed, ‘‘ don’t say that, my dear. After all, he 
is the best judge of that. If he thinks that you 
are good enough for him, that, surely, is enough — 
don’t get having ideas of that kind — I am sure the 
Bishop is the least bigoted man that it would be 
possible to find anywhere.” 

“ You don’t quite understand,” said Cecil, putting 
out her hand again. “ I did not say that he thought 
me not good enough — why, no — but that I some- 
times feel so.” 

“ Then you ought not to feel so, my dear, you 
are good enough for anybody,” taking her hand 
and patting it. “ Oh, and this is your ring,” she 
went on, in a different tone ; “ I haven’t seen it be- 
fore, dear — how very charming.” 

“Well, they are both his rings,” said Cecil, 
letting her hand lie passively in the other woman’s, 

but one he gave me for himself — the diamonds — 
and the other he gave me to please a fancy of mine. 
I always thought,” she added, “ that I should prefer 
an opal ring to any other ; but the Bishop wished 
to give me diamonds, so he compromised matters by 
giving me opals afterward.” 

“ But, my dear, are you not afraid ? They are 
very unlucky stonSs.” 

“ Oh, I don’t believe in that,” said Cecil, hastily. 

“ Well, but you were not born in October ? ” 


124 : 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


“ No, I was not.” 

“ Then you should not wear opals; nothing could 
be more unlucky. I would give that ring back to 
him if I were you, I would not wear it.” 

“ Oh, no,” said Cecil, “ I don’t believe in that. 
You see, the diamond is my engagement-ring 
proper, the other was only an after-thought.” 

Lady Yivian, however, had something else to say, 
and she did not mean to go away without saying it. 
She patted the girl’s hand and smoothed it gently 
once or twice, between her own plump, well -gloved 
fingers, and then delicately broached the subject of 
her intention. 

The Bishop is preaching a good deal just now,” 
she said casually, and in a tone of extreme indiffer- 
ence. 

“ Yes, he is,” Cecil replied. “ You see, he had 
made all his engagements for Lent before our en- 
gagement came off.” 

“ I see — and of course, he could not break them. 
By the bye, you know that he has refused our 
dinner on the 21st ? ” 

The shadow of a cloud came into Cecil’s eyes. 

“Well, the fact is he doesn’t like going out to 
dinner in Lent,” she answered. 

“ But surely that is very bigoted,” said Lady 
Yivian, a little vexedly ; for she had set her heart 
upon his being at this particular entertainment. 


A STRAIGHT QUESTION. 


125 


“ 1^0 , 1 don’t think it is bigoted ; only he has 
never gone out during Lent, and he doesn’t wish to 
begin it.” 

“ But that will be a great change for you, dear.” 

Well, yes, that is so. But of course,” putting 
her head up and speaking very bravely, “ we none 
of us take up a quite different life and expect to 
have everything just our own way of thinking, and 
although I have not been used to keeping Lent in 
that way, at the same time it’s not much of a thing 
to do for one’s husband, is it ? ” 

“True, true; you are sure, I suppose, that the 
Bishop has no strong leaning toward ritualism ? ” 

Cecil lauglied outright. 

“ Oh, dear, no, not the very least in the world. 
He doesn’t think it wicked to dine out in Lent, but 
he has never done it and he doesn’t care to begin it. 
He would do it if I asked him, but he doesn’t want 
to do it and, therefore, I don’t want to ask him.” 

“ Yery right, dear, very right. I am sure you 
will make him a perfect wife.” 

I don’t know,” said Cecil, shortly. 

She sat for a long time staring into the fire, after 
Lady Yivian had swept away with a few more 
pleasant words and a vague kindly expression of 
good-will for the future. She was not at all sure 
that she would make Archibald Netherby of 
Netherby a good wife — at least she was very sure 


126 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


that she would make a very imperfect one for the 
Bishop of Blankhampton. She was still sitting 
there in a little chair on the great white bear-skin, 
when the door opened and the Bishop came in. 

“ Oh, is that you ? ” she cried, gladly. “ I thought 
you were going to somewhere the other side of 
Barmington . ” 

“hTot to-night,” he answered, “I have just come 
from there.” 

“ Oh, I thought you were going to-night. Then 
you’ll stay to dinner ? ” 

“ Yes, dearest, if I may.” 

If you may — what nonsense — of course, you 
may. Will 3^ou have anything now ? Lady Yivian 
has been here, she has just gone.” 

“ I’ll have a cup of tea if it’s going,” said the 
Bishop, cheerily. 

“Well, it is going, and has been going so long 
that it must be something like ink now — you shall 
have some fresh.” 

She put her liand on the hell as she spoke, and 
the Bishop sat himself down in the big chair on 
the other side of the hearth to the roomy old 
sofa. 

“ Matthew, some tea,” said Miss Constable, “ and 
the Bishop will stay to dinner to-night.” 

She had lost all her wan looks since his entrance, 
and she sat down again on the little chair and put 


A STRAIGHT QUESTION. 127 

her hand into his with a sigh of ineffable content- 
ment. 

“ Lady Yivian has been here,” she said. “ Some- 
body has dropped a pebble into the serene pool 
which she calls her mind. She was quite in trouble 
when she came in.” 

“ In trouble — about what ? ” he asked, holding 
her hand between his two. 

‘‘ About me. She thinks I look ill, and unhappy, 
and she seems doubtful whether we are suited to 
each other, after all.” 

“ And you told her ? ” 

Oh, never mind what I told her — or stay, I will 
tell you what I told her. I told her what I have so 
often told you, that I am not half good enough for 
you.” 

“ My dear, you should not — you ought not to 
tell people that sort of thing — it is wicked,” he said, 
holding her hands in his and looking down into her 
soft eyes. “ You have no right to depreciate my 
property.” 

‘‘ I am not your property yet,” she said quickly. 

“ No, no, but you are my prospective property, 
and it is more wicked to damage it now, than it 
would be to damage it when I am perfectly sure of 
you.” 

Presently Matthew came back with fresh tea and 
hot toast, and Cecil insisted upon waiting upon the 


128 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


Bisliop, althoiigli he declared that he was not in the 
least tired. 

“ hTo, but I like to wait on you, and I want to 
wait on you, and I will wait on you,” she cried, “ so 
sit still and try to imagine — well, that you’ve been 
married four or five years,” with a roguish laugh. 

“ You think I shall expect to be waited on, when 
I’ve been married four or five ^^ears ? ” he asked. 

“I think it’s not at all improbable.” 

She certainly waited upon him admirably, and 
then she sat down again on the little chair, and 
asked him one or two questions about the place to 
which he had been that afternoon. 

Was it a big service? ” she inquired. 

Oh, yes, the church was crammed.” 

‘‘ Pretty church ? ” 

« Yes.” 

And you had lunch there ? ” 

“I had.” 

‘‘ Is ice lunch ? ” 

Oh, pretty fair.” 

‘‘And how did your sermon go ? ” 

“ I think all right,” he said, in a matter of fact 
tone. “But you know, dearest, I never feel quite 
the same when you are not there. Somehow, when 
you are in church, I feel as if I was better able to 
get hold of my congregation. Still, it was a very 
interesting subject to-day, and I think the people 


A STHAIGJ^T qUESTIOK 129 

liked it. At all events, they paid very close atten- 
tion to me.” 

“ And what was your subject ? ” she asked. 

“Well, you see, it was the restoration of a very 
old church, and I took the entire history of the 
church — of that particular church — and the events 
which had happened around it, during the last five 
hundred years.” 

“ I wish I had gone,” she said. “ Yes, I wish I 
had gone — it would have interested me.” 

She was silent then, resting her elbow on her 
knee and her chin on her hand. 

He watched her curiously for a little time, then 
said, “ Dearest, what are you thinking of ? ” 

Thinking ? Oh, I was thinking about the 
Thirty-nine Articles,” she answered, v/ithout hesita- 
tion. 

“ About the Thirty-nine Articles ? ” he repeat- 
ed, incredulously. “ Why, were you thinking about 
them ? ” 

“ Well, I read them over last night,” she said ; “ I 
never read them before. Tell me, Archie, and tell 
me truly — I mean, don’t explanify matters till I 
can’t understand what you mean — but tell me, yes 
or no, whether you actually believe in the Thirty- 
nine Articles or not ? ” 


9 


CHAPTER IX. 


A PLAIN answer! 


“ The sunniest things cast sternest shade. 

And there is even a happiness 
That makes the heart afraid.” 

—Hood. 


“Which are a shadow of things to come.” 

— Colossians. 

For a moment the Bishop looked at his pretty 
sweetheart, as if he could not believe the evidence 
of his own ears. 

“ My dear child,’’ he said, ‘‘ do you realize what 
you are saying ? ” 

“ I think so,” she said, gravely ; “ yes, 1 think 
so.” 

“ But, my dear, you might as well ask me if I 
believe in you, if I believe in my own personality, 
if I believe in the existence of what I see now be- 
fore me.” 

Then you do believe in them ? ” 

‘‘ Of course.” 


A FLAm AJVSWFF/ 


131 


“ I don’t quite see the ‘ of course,’ ” Miss Con- 
stable said boldly, and yet with a certain air of dif- 
fidence. 

“ But my whole position asserts my belief in 
them,” he said, very gravely. “ What made you 
ask me such a question ? ” 

“ Well, as I told you, I never read them until 
last night. I asked my father this morning if he 
had ever read them ? He said ‘ Ho, never,’ that it 
was not his business to do so, that if I wanted any 
enlightenment on the subject I had better apply to 
you.” 

“ Your father is perfectly right,” said the 
Bishop, it is much better for the laity not to dive 
too closejy into the actual formalities and technicali- 
ties of religion, because those who have not made 
what I may call the technique of religion the study 
of their whole heart and of their best energies, are 
not as capable of taking a calm and just view of the 
whole as those who have devoted their entire lives 
to it. I have always thought,” the Bishop went 
on, “ that one of the most wise rules of the Koinan 
Catholic Church is, that her children should not 
consider themselves at liberty to interpret the 
Scriptures for themselves. There is nothing so 
fatally easy, for either the feeble doubter or the 
professed iconoclast, as to be able to take one single 
sentence and judge the whole scheme of religion 


132 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


tlierefi*oin. I believe,” lie added, ‘‘that probably 
more poor souls have split upon the rock of that 
one sentence about King David than perhaps any 
other in the whole Bible. ‘ David was a man after 
God’s own heart.’ They say, looking at the char- 
acter of David from the standpoint of this nine- 
teenth century, with its refinements, its quick- work- 
ing leaven of Christianity, its high education, its 
lofty aims and aspirations, its sense of honor and 
its appreciation of beauty — ‘ If David was a man 
after God’s own heart, I have no desire to be the 
same.’ They don’t consider for a moment the cir- 
cumstances of David’s life, the customs of the coun- 
try in which he lived, the extraordinary changes 
which could transfer him from the position of a 
lowly shepherd-boy to be the king of a powerful 
country. Still less do they consider that the term 
‘ a man after God’s own heart ’ meant, not that God 
approved of everything that David did on earth, 
but that He had simply chosen him to be His in- 
strument with which to do certain work. Even 
less do they remember that David was most em- 
phatically a man with a conscience, and that for 
every ill deed he committed he suffered far more 
than most men. So,” he went on, “ may be argued 
in many other instances the folly of those who have 
not made the Bible their study, and who yet judge 
the entire scheme of religion from a single sen- 


A PLAIN ANSWER! 


133 


tence of it. It is infinitely wiser and more reason- 
able — and above all things religion should be rea- 
sonable — to accept with simple faith the broad 
teaching of those who have carefully thought out the 
entire subject. Take the Thirty-nine Articles — to 
you, reading them for the first time, I can quite 
understand that they are conflicting and contra- 
dictory ; but a large number of the most earnest- 
minded, clear-headed, and deep-thinking men, who 
have lived in this country for hundreds of years, 
have decided that they cannot improve upon these 
Articles, that they embody every point which is 
necessary, either for salvation or for the simple 
leading of a religious life.” 

“Yes, but,” said Cecil, “don’t you encourage 
every man and woman to think for themselves ? ” 

“ To a certain extent— yes. In all matters or 
questions of right and wrong, we must all of us 
think and judge for ourselves. But the fact that 
you, for instance, wish to think for yourself on a 
purely doctrinal matter, ought not to prevent you 
from letting another mind, which has made the 
subject (about which you have only just begun to 
think) its especial study, throw all possible light 
upon it. Of course, there are several Articles con- 
cerning certain mysteries which, so to speak, classify 
them, but which cannot in any sense attempt to ex- 
plain them. I know that to one who suddenly tries 


134 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


both to classify and to explain them, the task must 
be a very difficult one. But to all such inquirers 
after a definite standpoint, we Churchmen, we ex- 
perts, can only ask you to have sufficient faith to 
accept these tenets as mysteries and without ex- 
planation.” 

“ But your authority ? ” said Cecil. 

“ In what instance ? ” asked the Bishop. 

It was characteristic of this man that he was in 
no wise annoyed or shocked at this new attitude in 
the mind of the woman he loved. I think that, so 
far, his enormous influence on all those with whom 
he had been brought in contact, had consisted 
mainly in the fact of his extreme earnestness, in his 
willingness to be practically religious, in his evident 
desire not to throw dvist in the eyes of any seekers 
after truth, in his simple every-day, what one might 
almost call “ up to date ” language, applied to those 
old truths, or shall I more truly say those old state- 
ments of truth, which have been handed down to 
us from biblical times. 

Now, so many of the clergy seem never prepared 
to discuss certain questions appertaining to the be- 
liefs of the Church, in ordinary every-day language. 
If you ask them a question which is distinctly 
troubling your mind, and you ask it desiring to 
have a plain and straightforward answer, in ninety- 
nine cases out of a hundred they will reply to you 


A PZAIAT Am WPP/ 


135 


by a quotation, a quotation which is perfectly fa- 
miliar to you and which conveys no more to your 
mind, when coming from the mouth of one of the 
cloth, than it conveyed to you when you read it last 
with your own eyes. If you press them further, 
they will tell you to come and hear them on such 
a day, and they will then give you from twenty 
to forty or fifty minutes’ discourse, more or less 
wrapped up in what is generally considered to be 
suitable language, but which conveys less than 
nothing to your groping mind. You seldom gain 
any light, real light, from a sermon. When there 
arises a man who, like Savonarola, pi’eaches some- 
thing which makes those who hear him think, or 
which gives some ray of light to a soul unwillingly 
enveloped in darkness, that preacher becomes at 
once overwhelmed with hearers. Yet the ordinary 
sermon or liomily is in a measure useless, for it is 
unanswerable ; I mean it is physically unanswerable. 
And it is so easy to tell a story from one side only, 
so easy and so pre-eminently unsatisfactory to the 
mind which stands on the other side, which knows 
only the other side, and has neither the ability nor 
the learning to amalgamate the two, which has no 
opportunity of threshing out the subject with an 
intelligent thinker, who will use language as simple 
as that in which we conduct the ordinary every-day 
business of life. 


136 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP, 


“ But your authority ? ” said Miss Constable. 

He looked up and put out his hand to her. 

“ The best of all authority,” he said, gently, “ the 
Word of God.” 

“ Yes, naturally,” she replied, “but I would like 
to know what you think of this Article ? ” 

She got up and fetched a prayer-book from a 
drawer in a bureau. 

“ How, this one,” she said. “‘Works done be- 
fore the grace of Christ and the Inspiration of His 
Spirit, are not pleasant to God, forasmuch as they 
spring not of faith in Jesus Christ, neither do they 
make men meet to receive grace, or (as tlie School- 
authors say) deserve grace of congruity ; yea, 
rather, for that they are not done as God hath 
willed and commanded them to be done, we doubt 
not but that they have the nature of sin.’ How, do 
you mean to tell me that God does not love good 
for its own sake, and that good cannot exist without 
a certain belief in an accepted creed ? If so, in 
that case, what would become of the millions of 
Chinamen, who have no opportunity of even know- 
ing anything of Christianity ? 

“My dearest,” he said, mildly, “it stands to 
common-sense that no man will be judged of God, 
without everything for and against him being taken 
into consideration.” 

“ But,” she persisted, “ there are many in what 


A FZAm AJ^SW^BB/ 


137 


we call Christian England, who have not the oppor- 
tunity of being believers, as some are believers. 
For instance, you might think that it is impossible 
that I, who am a well-educated and, to a certain 
extent, an accomplished woman, living in a good 
sphere of life, should not know very much about 
religion. It is quite true that I have gone to 
Church regularly, ever since I was old enough to go 
at all, that I have listened Sunday after Sunday to 
our old Eector’s sermons, that I have joined in the 
services, and I have been baptized, and confirmed, 
and have taken the Sacrament ; but, until lately, I 
have never thought^ until quite lately I have never 
questioned anything, I simply accepted it, and, if 
you asked me off-hand what I believed in, I should 
not have been able to tell you. For the matter of 
that, I don’t know now ; indeed I feel much more 
like knowing what I don’t believe in. But do you 
mean to tell me — I mean would any authority in 
the Church tell me — that I, who am by no means 
fixed in my beliefs, who am by no means assured of 
salvation, am not better and more acceptable in the 
sight of God, than a man or woman who may have 
committed every form of violent sin, but who, in 
his last hours, professes and perhaps j*eally feels a 
genuine belief in Christ ? Is not my white life 
more acceptable than the newly whitewashed 
one ? ” 


138 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


“ ‘ The first shall be last,’ ” murmured the 
Bishop. 

“ No, no quotations,” she exclaimed, putting up 
her hand ; “ I can quote little bits of scripture for 
mjself, I want every-day language. But I want to 
know this: do you believe that a man who has com- 
mitted a dozen vile murders, who has, without even 
the excuse of physical necessity, robbed from the 
widow and the orphan, who has gone about the 
world doing evil, who has betrayed those who 
trusted him, who has stirred up strife between mas- 
ter and servant, who has broken all the laws of 
moralit}", but who in his last hours repents of his 
sins — do you believe that he is in as good a position 
in the eyes of God as one who has lived what we 
may fairly call a white life ? If so, what induce- 
ment is there for anyone to be good at all ? ” 

“ So far as this world is concerned,” said the 
Bishop, “ those who live good and blameless lives 
from whatever cause, have always the I’eward and 
satisfaction of being nobler and better and happier 
than if they had followed evil courses.” 

“ But,” said she, quickly, “ I am not talking 
about this world, I am talking about the next one.” 

“But don’t you think,” he said, gently, “that it 
would be best and safest to leave that question to 
take care of itself ? ” 

“No,” she answered. “If these Articles of Ke- 


A PLAm AI^SWEPf 


139 


ligion left that question to take care of itself, I 
would say these Articles of Religion wei’e honest. 
Bat they do not leave it to take care of itself. The 
thirteenth Article lays down, clearly and authorita- 
tively, that good works done before the grace of 
Christ are sinful. Are they, then, less valuable in 
God’s eyes than the failings of those who have re- 
ceived salvation and the grace of God ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” said the Bishop. “ That Article 
is not intended to be read in the way in which you 
read it. Of course, the good works of a Chinaman 
or of a heathen are as acceptable to God as the good 
works of a professed Christian.” 

But you don’t say so.” 

“ Because the Articles of Religion are not intend- 
ed to be read by those who have not thoroughly 
studied the subject.” 

“ Then why are they given to us“ ? ” she asked. 
“ Why are they put into the Prayer-book ? Why 
are they read when a man is inducted into a living? 
My father says that the only time he ever heard 
the Thirty-nine Articles read was when Mr. Sea- 
forth read himself into the Rectory of Raburn. 
But there they are in every Prayer-book, and there 
could be no law to compel the possessors of Prayer- 
books not to read them. Why, then, are they not 
framed in language which even a child could under- 
stand ? Why do you have these stumbling-blocks 


140 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


set in the path of those who are only too anxious 
to believe what is right and just? I may be 
wrong,” she went on, “ but I cannot reconcile these 
two assertions with each other. The declaration 
that works done before the grace of Christ are not 
pleasing to God, because they do not spring from 
faith in Jesus and therefore have the nature of sin, 
in short that they are wicked ; and the assertion in 
the Sixteenth Article that not every deadly sin will- 
ingly committed — willingly committed — after Bap- 
tism, is sin against the Holy Ghost and unpardon- 
able. Why,” she cried, “ it amounts to this ; ‘ If 
you do not believe in Christ, if you have not the 
grace of God, your goodness is wicked ; and if you 
have the grace of God, your willing sin is pai-don- 
able.’ It isn’t reason — it is not common-sense. 
And it seems to me absolutely impossible that you, 
whom I know -to be good, whom I know to be gen- 
erous, forbearing, kind, and full of practical com- 
mon-sense, can believe, truly and really believe, 
statements so conflicting as these.” 

“ My dearest,” said the Bishop, quietly and 
soothingly, “ you seem to forget that those Articles 
were not framed for the use and guidance of a com- 
munity of perfect men and women ! On the con- 
trary, those who drew them up, well knew the 
weakness and failings to which human hearts ai-e 
liable^ the temptations to which they are most 


A PZAIIV' AJV^SWPP/ 


141 


prone. Those Articles are framed so as to make 
the way as little difficult and discouraging to those 
who wish to live right and do well, as is possible. 
The religion of our Church has never been a hard 
and merciless one — but if you believe in Christ’s 
redemption of ns at all, you must believe that faith 
and belief in Him are absolutely necessary to salva- 
tion ; necessaiy, that is, to all those who have had 
the opportunity of knowing the story of the Gospel. 
As for the Article on sins willingly committed after 
baptism — my dear child, you must know that hu- 
man nature is terribly weak — for instance, to use a 
metaphor as simple as you could wish for, take the 
case of a drunkard who wishes to give up drink — 
he may believe, may know that it is social, mental, 
and moral ruin to him to indulge in drink — prob- 
ably nobody in the world knows it quite so well as 
he does ! Yet there may be times---and generally 
are — in a drunkard’s life, even long after the sin, as 
a habit, has been put away and trodden under foot 
— when he may deliberately, in cold blood, will- 
ingly (as the Article puts it) indulge himself in a 
fit of steady, hard drinking. Yet would you say, 
therefore, that all hope of that man’s future is 
gone, that when he comes back to his senses again, 
and-with them comes a horrible realization of the 
fearful slide he has made backward, that he is a 
worse character than the man who is steadily and 


142 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


deliberately drinking himself into his grave, with 
no idea even that he is on the wrong road ? Why 
no, a thousand times, no. Give me any day the 
man who has still enough grace to be bitterly 
ashamed of his sin, before the man who glories in 
his wickedness, and would rather not walk ever so 
short a distance on the right path. The one may 
fail in keeping his path over and over again — he 
may be weak, he may be vacillating, uncertain, in- 
firm of purpose — but in his heart he would prefer 
to be always sober and to live a decent, respectable 
life — he is to be pitied, but he is never, so long as 
he is alive, necessarily lost.” 


CHAPTER X. 


AN ACHING SOHL. 

“ We live by hope 
And by desire ; we see by the glad light, 

And breathe the sweet air of futurity ; 

And so we live or else we have no life. ’* 

— W ORDSWOBTH. 

** My kindness shall not depart from thee.” 

— Isaiah. 

For a little time the doubts which had troubled 
Cecil Constable’s mind seemed to sleep, and the 
Bishop believed that his conversation with her that 
cold wintry afternoon had dispelled them. It was 
not so, in reality, however. To tell the truth, the 
girl’s mind was torn a thousand ways. People 
round about Blankhampton said that she looked ill, 
and many firmly believed that she was marrying not 
for love but for position, and that she was simply 
pining away in consequence thereof. But nobody 
guessed or even suspected the tumult of feeling 
which, during that quiet Lenten time, was literally 


144 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


raging in tlie girl’s heart. She was not happ}^, that 
is true ; but, as every day went over, she became 
more and more in love, passionately and unreservedly 
in love, with the Bishop. It was not to be wondered 
at, for if he had endeared himself to all sorts and 
conditions of men, who regarded him with no small 
degree of awe, owing to the dignity of his position 
and the no less dignity of his manner, although he 
was very kindly withal, he naturally did not fail to 
please a woman of his own rank of life, with whom 
he was on terms of the most perfect equality. 

But as her love grew, so did her doubts thrive 
apace. Up to the time of her engagement to the 
Bishop — or I should say up to the time of her reali- 
zation of her true feeling for the Bishop — religion 
was not a question that had troubled her in a veiy 
great degree. She had had certain doubts, as most 
thinking people have, but they had been of a very 
fleeting character. She had gone to church reg- 
ularly, but as a form that must be gone through, 
almost without question ; she had followed and 
joined in the Church services (which are the least 
puzzling part of the Church’s forms) as many other 
girls do, without asking what every individual sen- 
tence meant. From time to time, she had found 
herself brought face to face with some startling ques- 
tion, which came upon her with a kind of shock, 
with a certain sense of wickedness, a sense of im- 


AN ACHING SOUL, 


145 


piety that her mind should question these things, 
which she had been brought up to regard as sacred 
and as infallible ; and like any other thinking per- 
son, this habit had grown upon her rather than the 
reverse. 

From her earliest childhood she had been accus- 
tomed to hear her father, Sunday after Sunday, con- 
fess himself to be a miserable sinner, but the words 
had produced no effect upon her whatever. She 
had never regarded her father in the light of a 
sinner ; on the contrary, she had been taught to look 
upon him as the very salt of the earth. She had 
heard in church that, in the sight of God, all men 
are equal, and that the first shall be last and the last 
shall be first in the Kingdom of Heaven. But these 
words had conveyed no impression to her young 
mind. Had anyone declared to her that her father 
was no better than the humblest of mankind, Miss 
Constable would have laughed outright at the idea 
that her father, the Squire of Raburn, the head of 
one of the oldest families in England, whose lands 
had passed in an unbroken line from father to son 
since the time of Henry the Third, should only be 
the equal of, if not actually ranking after, Thomas 
Sinithers, the old man who minded cows in the vil- 
lage — why, it was preposterous. But nobody ever 
did offer the Squire’s daughter this piece of valuable 
information, least of all the spiritual guide to the 
10 


146 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


parish of Kaburn, and so Cecil Constable had duly 
and truly called herself a miserable sinner and had 
accepted the doctrine of the equality of all men, 
without in the least asking herself what such words 
really meant. 

So it was only from time to time that awkward, 
and to her seemingly unanswerable, questions came 
to her with appalling vividness. Why did God do 
this ? Did God ever do that ? Where is the au- 
thority for this statement ? In what part of Christ’s 
teaching shall we find the justification for that? 
And at such times she had been vaguely uneasy — 
vaguely anxious. But it was not until her whole 
heart and life came to be bound up with that of one 
of the highest dignitaries of the Church, that the 
terrible importance of certain questions was forced 
home to her inmost soul. 

Her life at this time was a strange mixture of in- 
tense happiness and equally intense misery. When- 
ever the Bishop was with her, she was wildly, almost 
deliriously happy ; when he went out of her presence, 
the black cloud of uncertainty and, alas, of doubts 
which were no longer doubts, doubts which had 
come to be more terrible than mere doubt, seemed 
to settle down upon her like a funeral pall, like the 
funeral pall of her dearest earthly hopes and desires. 

‘‘ If I could only make sure — if I knew — if there 
were anybody that I could ask,” she kept saying to 


Ai^- Acnim SOUL. 


147 


herself, over and over again. Then came the an- 
swer with dreadful conviction, “ You can never 
know, you can never be sure — there is nobody that 
you can ask — nobody that can speak with higher 
authority than he is able to do.” But he, the man 
she loved, was no better able to satisfy her aching 
soul than any other and more indifferent coun- 
sellor. 

No wonder that the girl got thin and looked so 
ill that she was the open comment of all her large 
acquaintance. She had the appearance of one 
breaking down from overwork, and little marvel 
that it was so. She had many duties, and she cer- 
tainly neglected none of them. The Bishop spent 
a good deal of time with her, and during those hours 
that she was free, she read assiduously in a praise- 
worthy but fruitless attempt to gain some satisfac- 
tion for her soul. The library at Eaburn was a 
very valuable one, containing some of the rarest 
theological works in existence. Cecil read them 
all, often sitting up half the night, poring over 
some one or other of the old Fathers, seeking for 
some ray of light which would lighten her dark- 
ness ; for some finger-post, which would guide her 
into the fair haven of child-like and absolute belief 
which she was so desperately anxious to find ; for 
some strand of hope which would take her out of 
this dreadful trackless plain of unbelief, which 


148 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


would release her from this new and appallingly 
fascinating frame of mind which needed practical, 
common-sense assurance of the reality of things 
that were not, in the ordinary acceptance of the 
word, realities at all. And the result of all this 
anxious and very promiscuous reading was, that 
every day and every hour, with every book she 
opened, with every line she read, Cecil Constable 
di-ifted farther and farther away from the faith 
which her fathers had followed implicitly, because 
most of them had not taken the trouble to do any- 
thing else. 

Her first definite step was to put off her mar- 
riage. 

“ I want,” she said one day, when the Bishop had 
gone over to Raburn, “I want to ask you some- 
thing.” 

“ Yes ? ” he said, inquiringly. 

Well, I know,” she said, hesitatingly, ‘‘ that it is 
very old-fashioned to want a honeymoon. People 
go away for a week now and think that it is more 
than sufficient ; and you proposed to take a fort- 
night when we were married.” 

“Well,” he said, “ I couldn’t take more, because 
you see all the confirmations are fixtures, and I am 
rather stretching a point as it is.” 

“ Archie,” she said, a little doubtfully, “ I don’t 
want you to stretch a point for me in any direction. 


AN ACHING SOUL. 149 

I would rather wait to be married until the confir- 
mations are over.” 

“ But that won’t be until the end of July,” he 
exclaimed, blankly. 

“ I know. I would rather wait until the end of 
July,” she blurted out. 

But Cecil — dearest — what does it mean — that 
you are not willing to be married — that you want 
time to think it out ? Not — oh, it might mean a 
dozen things — you are not changing, you couldn’t 
be changing ; I wouldn’t believe it of you.” 

‘‘No, I’m not changing,” she answered, “I’m not 
any less in love with you than I was a month ago ; 
it is not that. But I don’t feel fit to be married — 
at least I don’t feel fit to marry you — and I would 
rather wait until the end of July and then go away 
for two months night off, than I would be married 
feeling as I do now. It is not in any way a ques- 
tion of my love for you, you know that you have 
my whole heart ; but I should feel happier if I had 
more time to think, I should feel so much happier 
if I had a more assured belief than I have now.” 

“ My dear,” he said, earnestly, “ why will you not 
have sufficient belief in me to leave the care of that 
to the future ? If I am willing to marry a wife, 
whom I believe to be an absolutely good woman, 
taking no heed to doubts which come into the minds 
of most men and women at some time or other. 


150 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


surely you need not have any scruple on the sub- 
ject. Believe me, dearest, that as you become 
more settled in your life, there is every probability 
that these doubts will disappear one by one, and 
they are more likely to disappear under the influ- 
ence of one whose faith is implicit, than while you 
allow yourself to worry about them in your present 
position. If I am willing to take that risk, I don’t 
think that you need hesitate in the least.” 

“ But,” she said, “ supposing that we are married 
when we first intended, and supposing that instead 
of my doubts fading away and being set at rest, 
they became confirmed and that I found it impos- 
sible, as I am afraid I should do, to accept what is 
the leading motive of your whole life — wliere shall 
we be then ? ” 

“ Exactly where we are now,” answered the 
Bishop. 

“ Yes, but now you have every hope that I shall 
not feel as I do now, and if I definitely make up 
my mind that I cannot accept what I cannot believe, 
would you remain the same to me then ? No, you 
could not. And how could I, if I do not believe in 
your creed, in the creed which has, after a fashion, 
been my own up to now, how could I attend a 
single service of the church ? How could I, as 
your wife, avoid doing so ? People would say, and 
they would say rightly, ‘This man is a man of 


AN ACHING SOUL. 


151 


great influence, but he cannot influence his own 
wife sufficiently to make her come to church ; how 
then can he expect to influence others for good ? ’ 
It would be your ruin and I should be your ruin ; I 
should know that I was your ruin. How could you 
imagine that your love for me would last in such a 
case ? ” 

“ I could not imagine my love for you not last- 
ing,” he answered, steadily. 

“ What, if I went all against the aim and effort 
of your life ? ” 

“ But I don’t think you would go against the aim 
and effort of my life,” he replied. ‘‘ If you had 
doubts — or I should more truly say, if you had 
definite beliefs in another direction — it would not 
be absolutely necessary for you to give outward ex- 
pression to them.” 

“ Then I should be dishonest,” she said, quickly. 

“I don’t think so. Though, mind, I don’t believe 
for a moment that you would have those doubts 
really and truly confirmed. You would try not to 
have them — you would naturally and instinctively 
try to believe what I believe, you would naturally 
try to accept what I accept. And you are certainly 
more likely, remaining as you are, to have your 
doubts confirmed, than if we were married as soon 
as possible.” 

“ I think perhaps,” said Cecil, ‘‘ that if I could 


152 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


spend a couple of months witli you abroad, quite 
away from old associations, I should be more likely 
to come back and take up my life here as your wife 
— than if I w’ent with but a few days’ interval, from 
one home to the other. The change would be so 
sudden, so much would be expected of me, I should 
never be able to live up to it No, believe me, 
Archie, unless you can get two months’ leave-of- 
absence — I don’t know what you call it in the 
Church — from Easter, it will be far better to wait 
until you can have it.” 

“ I don’t see,” he said, in a tone of deep disap- 
pointment, how I could make so long an absence 
from my people, when I have definitely promised to 
hold the majority of the confirmations myself ; it 
would be breaking faith with my wdiole diocese, and 
even for you, dearest, I do not feel willing to do 
that.” 

“Then,” she said, almost eagerly, “will you 
agree with me to put off our marriage until the end 
of July ? Then, unless I feel very much more con- 
vinced than I am now of my — doubts, I will raise 
no obstacle to that which I desire beyond every- 
thing on this earth.” 

“ You are quite sure,” he said, holding her close 
against his breast and looking eagerly down into her 
troubled eyes, “you are quite sure that you have no 
feeling in your heart of doubt of me, that you have 


AN ACHING SOUL. 


153 


no feeling of doubt of jour affection for me, of 
your love for me ? You are quite sure that it is a 
doctrinal doubt which is troubling you, and noth- 
ing nearer to me than that ? ” 

“ How could anything be nearer to you than 
doctrinal doubt ? ” she asked. 

“ Many, many things,” he replied, without hesi- 
tation. “ I am not one of those men who believe 
that their own little following are secure of Heaven, 
and that all those who differ from them in the de- 
tails of Christianity shall be damned for everlast- 
ing. I put nobody outside the pale of Heaven. 
How could anybody, who believed in the infinite 
love of God and the endless mercy of the Saviour, 
who died for us, truly in his heart make any real 
distinction between one kind of Christianity and 
another ? My dear, we are all trying to win the 
same end, we are all pressing on the same road, the 
differences of doctrine are mere forms for the 
guidance of those who are not strong enough to 
depend merely upon the broad lines of Christ’s own 
teaching. We may be Jews or Gentiles, we may 
go to church or we may go to chapel ; no, I will go 
farther afield than that, and say we may be follow- 
ers of Moslem or we may be worshippers of Buddha, 
but it does not really matter which, so long as we 
honestly try to do the right thing by the religion 
which we profess, and which we believe in. There 


154 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP, 


may be some who belong to the extreme High or to 
the nltra-Low Church, who would lead you to be- 
lieve differently, but if you pin such men down to a 
definite statement of faith, I don’t think that you 
w^ould find any who would say in cold blood that 
they honestly and truly believed that anyone of a 
different religion to himself is totally cut off from 
the God who made him.” 

He had naturally meant his words to be a com- 
fort to this precious soul, so eagerly and so earnest- 
ly seeking after truth. But for once the Bishop had 
made a mistake, his very charity and his liberality 
toward all sorts and professions of religion but 
served to intensify the despair in Cecil’s mind. 

She almost wailed as his words fell upon her 
ears. 

Oh,” she cried, “ oh, I wish you had not said it 
— oh, you have made me wretched — ^you have made 
me miserable. I have been trying to school myself 
all these weeks into thinking, into believing that 
you absolutely accept as a solemn truth, all that you 
declare and aflfirm when you testify to these terrible 
Articles of Keligion. How you have undone all 
that I have been trying to do. You make a dis- 
tinct profession, you have put your seal to all these 
terrible declarations, and yet your own heart is 
wider, broader, more liberal, more charitable, 
than the religion that you profess openly, the re- 


AN ACHING SOUL, 


155 


ligion that you teach to others, to those who have 
not the same power of discrimination as what you 
call an expert in religion must have. You tell me 
that I must believe those Thirty-nine Articles; 
then I must believe that a dear little innocent babe 
of a week old shall, if by some accident or other it 
has not been baptized, merit God’s wrath forever.” 

“ I never told you so,” he put in. 

“ No, but these Articles tell me so. There is no 
doubt about it — there is no getting over it ; why, you 
will not even read the burial service for the comfort 
of the living, over a child that according, to the 
Church’s theory, has, by no fault of its own, been 
let to slip into eternal damnation. Oh, you couldn’t 
believe it — nobody could believe it — why then do you 
teach it ? Why do you tell me that I must believe 
it ? Why do you tell me that I must believe these 
Articles of Religion in their entirety ? ” 

“ But I don’t tell you so,” he exclaimed. 

You tell me so in church. Do you tell me one 
thing in church and do you tell me another thing 
in private life ? Is that all your religion is worth ? 
Oh, Archie, if you knew how wretched I am — if you 
knew how anxious! am to believe every thing as you 
would have me believe it, you would pity me. Now 
I understand what a poor woman, whose child died 
last year in the next village, felt like when she cried 
out that they had buried her baby like a dog. And 


156 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


yet you ask me to believe, to definitely accept a 
religion which could wound a bleeding heart like 
that. You ask me to pin my faith for eternity upon 
a religion which can deliberately place the issues, 
not of life or death, but of eternal salvation or 
damnation, in the hands of ignorant peasant people 
who have not got sense enough to vote for the man 
they wisli to support at an election. It is all very 
well to leave the arranging of Parliament in the 
hands of these people, but the Church goes further 
— it gives to the hopelessly ignorant or wicked the 
power of deciding whether their unconscious and 
wholly innocent babes shall inherit Heaven or Hell. 
Oh, everything you say, everything I read, eveiy- 
thing I think, only confirms in my mind the wicked- 
ness and the dishonesty of the terrible things that 
the Church sends broad-cast upon the world, in the 
guise of God’s holy truth. I never believed these 
things, for I never thought about them, and now 
that I do think I could not insult my God by be- 
lieving that He, who is so good, so holy, so generous, 
and so pitiful, could treat that little babe as His 
ministers here did. Surely that child was as much 
God’s child in the hour of its innocent birth as it 
was in the hour of its equally innocent death. And 
yet you tell me that every human soul born into 
the world is born wicked. Oh, I could not believe 
in such a religion, I won’t believe it, nothing could 


Air ACHING SOUL. 


157 


make me believe it. Surely, the Burial Service is 
for the living, not for the dead ? Surely, the trouble 
of the mother who loses her little child, is just as 
great if the child dies without baptism, as if it has 
been baptized ? Surely she has the same hope of 
resurrection and after-life for that child ? And 
surely, if she believes in a Bedeemer at all, she 
believes that He will redeem her baby as willingly 
and as efficaciously as if its white soul had lived 
long enough to be stained with conscious sin ? 
Surely, a baby which has never known, which never 
can have known, a single conscious thought, must be 
as much our sister, our brother, as the murderer who 
perishes on the scaffold ? And yet you, who are so 
good, so generous, so pitiful for the wickedness of 
those less strong than yourself, yet you teach this 
diabolical doctrine, and you ask me to marry you and 
profess those very things which fill my whole nature 
with the utmost loathing.” 

The Bishop got up and walked restlessly about 
the room for some minutes. 

“Dearest,” he said, coming back to her, “in your 
present frame of mind, it is perfectly useless for me 
to say anything. I shall do both myself and my 
cause less harm if I do not argue with you just now, 
than if I attempt to refute everything that you 
have said. From your standpoint, you are perfectly 
right in wishing to put off our marriage. You must 


158 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


know,” he went on, “the intense disappointment 
that it is to me — I feel as if my whole life had been 
torn up by the roots. However, we will put it off 
until the end of July, and it need not be necessary 
for anybody to know the exact reason for our 
doing so.” 


CHAPTER XL 


AND WHAT ELSE ? 


‘‘There is always a hope, in the storm or the calm ; 
There is always a hope, and a comforting halm.” 

— Shirley Hlbberd. 


“ How long will ye vex my soul, and break me in pieces with 
words ? ” 


— Job, 


The Bishop and Cecil Constable had, however, 
reckoned altogether without their host. As soon 
as she broke the news that the wedding was to be 
put off until the end of July, a perfect storm of 
inquisitive questions. broke upon her devoted head. 
She first had to deal with her father, who, when she 
hinted at the new order of things, stared at her in 
undisguised amazement, as if he could not have 
heard her aright. 

“ You have put your wedding off ? ” he said, in- 
credulously. 

“ For a little time, dear,” said Cecil, trying to 
speak calmly. 

“ But why — why ? ” 


160 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP, 


“Well, dear, I wished to put it off.’’ 

“ Yes, but you must have had a reason ? ” 

“ Well, dear, you see, Archie can only take a 
fortnight at the very outside now, and I felt that 
I would like to have a longer honeymoon than 
that, and if we wait until the end of July, he can 
get a couple of months.” 

“That’s all nonsense,” said Sir Edward, with 
decision ; “ no girl ever put her wedding off for such 
a reason as that ; there’s something else behind it.” 

“Well, I tell you frankly. Father, that it does 
weigh on my mind coming back so soon to be the 
wife of the Bishop. It is all so sudden to me, and 
so much will be expected of me, and I am sure I 
should get more used to being married to Archie if 
we had a couple of months abroad.” 

“ And what else is there ? ” said Sir Edward, 
looking straight at her. 

Cecil’s color faded a little. 

“ I don’t think, dear,” she said, with gentle re- 
proach, “ that it’s nice of you or generous of you to 
insist that there is something else. It sounds almost 
as if you were anxious to be rid of me.” 

“ Kot at all — not in the least — I never want to 
be rid of you, and you know it, you young minx, as 
well as I do,” he exclaimed, with affectionate scold- 
ing. “ Only your words made me a little suspicious. 
I don’t want to have you hold yourself to an engage- 


AND WHAT ELSE? 


161 


ment, from a scruple of conscience, if you would 
rather not fulfil it. I have always thought,” Sir 
Edward went on, that the most foolish thing any 
man or woman could do in this whole world, is to 
ratify an engagement as a question of honor ; the 
law of breach-of-promise ought to be revised — there 
should be no such thing. If any man or woman 
has made a mistake, it is better to find it out before 
marriage than afterward. I feel very strongly on 
the subject,” he said decidedly. 

He was standing in front of the fire, his hands in 
his pockets, and he looked very determined and 
almost fierce. 

“ My dearest old Daddy,” said Cecil, looking at 
him with shining eyes, “you mistake the situation 
altogether. I haven’t got that particular scruple 
troubling my conscience, and I don’t want to get 
out of my marriage with the Bishop. I think I 
almost worship him, and I am sure I never thought 
it possible that I could love any man so much, and 
it is perhaps because I love him so dearly, that I am 
not eager to rush on our marriage. You may think 
it is very queer, dear, but don’t you get it into your 
head that I am not absolutely happy in my relations 
with him.” 

She rose from the table, where she had eaten very 
little in the way of breakfast, and went and stood 
close beside him. 

11 


162 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


“ Dear Daddy,” she said, putting lier slender 
hands upon his shoulders, ^Miow could I be anything 
else than over head and ears in love with snch a 
man ? ” 

‘•Well, it doesn’t seem to me natural that you are 
not enough in love to want to marry him at once. 
I can tell you I should have looked very much 
askance at your mother, if she had proposed putting 
off our marriage for thi’ee months.” 

“Well, so he did,” said Cecil, trying to smile. 

“ I dare say he did,” returned Sir Edward, in a 
tone of conviction, “ for there is no doubt about his 
feelings, my dear.” 

“ Oh, no, nor of mine,” she rejoined quickly. 

“ Well, as to yours, I tell you frankly, child, that 
I have had my doubts about yours for some weeks 
past. You don’t look to me like a girl engaged to 
the man of her heart, you look anxious and worried 
and ill. I’ve watched you, when you thought I was 
otherwise occupied, and I know perfectly well — at 
least, I am as sure as I can be of anything that I can 
onlj" guess at — that you have not told me everything. 
There is something in the background that you are 
keeping from me. However, I have never tried to 
force your confidence, and I never mean to do so. 
Of course, you know, Cecil, that I never, until this 
splendid Bishop came among us, contemplated the 
possibility of a child of mine marrying a clergyman. 


AND WHAT ELSE? 


163 


Personally, all I want is that yon shall have your 
highest happiness, but remember this : if ever you 
feel that the bond is one likely to be irksome to you 
or not in every sense according to your liking, don’t 
let any false scruple of honor bind you. I am 
perfectly certain that the Bishop would rather die a 
thousand deaths than marry a woman who did not 
give him her whole heart.” 

“ I have given him that for all time,” said Cecil, 
solemnly. 

All the same she went about her usual avoca- 
tions with the feeling that she had not in reality 
hidden the truth from her father. He had per- 
ceived that something was amiss between her and 
Archibald Hetherby ; he had not only perceived it, 
but he had put it into plain language, and she had 
not been altogether able to deny it, or rather she 
had not attempted to do so ; she had only reiterated 
the assurance of the intensity of her feelings toward 
him. 

Pier father pressed her no further. He had su- 
preme confidence in his daughter’s judgment, and as 
she was evidently not willing to discuss the ques- 
tion in its entirety, he was willing, if not quite con- 
tent, to await her explanations. On the other hand, 
no one else who knew her well enough to mention 
the subject at all, was as easily put off as he who 
had surely the most right to question and speak, 


164 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


and the most right to her confidence. Lady Yivian 
heard the news about a w^eek later, at a dinner- 
party. 

“ But Miss Constable is not going to be married 
until July,” said a lady, hearing her speak of some- 
thing relative to the wedding, as if it were to take 
place soon after Easter. 

Lady Vivian looked up with her grandest air. 
She had a very dignified manner, bland and urbane 
but with the decided accents of one accustomed to 
command, and likely to have the best and latest 
information on any subject on which she chose to 
speak with authority. 

“ The Bishop and Miss Constable are to be mar- 
ried soon after Easter,” she said. 

“ No, July — the end of July,” said the other. 

Lady Yivian smiled. 

“ The w’eek after Easter,” she repeated. 

“ But it is put off,” said the other lady, “ it has 
been put off — it is to take place at the end of 
July.” 

“ I have not heard of it,” said Lady Yivian, still 
unconvinced. 

“ I assure you that it is so.” 

I think I should have heard of it,” in a more 
unbelieving tone still. 

‘‘ Well, I have very good authority,” said the 
younger woman. 


AND WHAT ELSE? 


165 


“My dear Mrs. Wrotliesley, I think I have as 
good authority on that subject as anybody in this 
neighborliood, and the last time I saw Miss Con- 
stable, which was about a fortnight ago, she spoke 
of the marriage as being fixed to take place during 
the week after Easter. I don’t think one can have 
better authority as to the date of a marriage than 
the bride herself.” 

“ No, no, in a general way, of course not,” said 
Mrs. Wrotliesley, in an unmoved tone, “ but my 
authority is somewhat better, as I happened to see 
Sir Edward Constable yesterday, and he told me 
that it was put off until the end of July.” 

“ Indeed — is that so ? Then I must beg your 
pardon, I had not heard of it — ^you surprise me very 
much. Did Sir Edward give you any reason ? ” 

“ No, he did not — at least he said it had been put 
off in deference to his daughter’s wishes, and that 
for his own part he was very glad of the respite, as 
he did not want to get rid of her a day sooner than 
need be.” 

“ I can quite believe that,” said Lady Yivian. 

She went home with a vague sense of uneasi- 
ness. 

“I don’t like this wedding being put off,” she 
said to Sir Thomas, as they were nearing home ; 
“ I don’t like put-off weddings — they’re not lucky. 
There is something wrong about it. Why should 


1C6 THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 

Cecil want to put her wedding off? They have 
nothing to wait for. I — I shall go over to-morrow 
and see her.” 

“ I shouldn’t,” said Sir Thomas, who was sleepy, 
and thought that young ladies ought to manage 
their own matrimonial affairs without the help of 
outsiders ; “ I shouldn’t, she won’t thank you.” 

“ It is not quite a question of her thanking me, 
Tom, I — I want to know the reason wh 3 \” 

“ Oh, that’s it, is it ? Well, my dear, don’t worry 
about it ; you will get to know the reason why, all 
in good time, and if you don’t, why, time will show 
— time will show.” 

Lady Yivian, however, was not to be put off like 
this. She ordered the carriage, the following after- 
noon, for three o’clock, and she went over to Ra- 
burn, determined to get at the bottom of the 
mystery. But, of course, it is one thing to deter- 
mine to do a certain thing and it is quite another 
thing to do it. Lady Yivian had to return no wiser 
than she went. Miss Constable was not at home. 

“ Is Miss Constable not receiving or is she out ? ” 
Lady Yivian asked. 

“ Miss Constable is out, my lady,” Matthew re- 
plied. “ She has gone to Wendelby with the 
Bishop.” 

“Oh — oh — Well, tell her that I came, say that I 
wanted to see her very much. I shall be at home 


AND WHAT ELSE? 


167 


to-morrow afternoon, if slie is anywhere in my 
neighborhood. I want to see her very much.” 

“ I’ll tell Miss Constable, my lady,” said Matthew ; 
but I believe she is going somewhere to-morrow 
afternoon with his Lordship. I heard,” he went 
on, with the respectful familiarity of an old re- 
tainer, “ I heard Miss Constable making arrange- 
ments for to-morrow. Ilis Lordship dined here 
last night— not a party, my lady, no other visi- 
tors.” 

“ Oh, I see. Well, give my love to Miss 
Constable, and tell her that I hope she will come 
and see me as soon as she can. I have not seen her 
for a long time.” 

“ I will, my lady,” said Matthew, deferentially. 

He repeated the message to Cecil, when she and 
the Bishop returned from their drive. 

“ Oh ! oh, yes, thank you, Matthew. And now 
let us have some tea,” she said, pleasantly. 

As the door closed behind the old servant, she 
turned and looked at the Bishop. 

Oh — oh, Archie,” she cried, “it is so easy to 
see what that means.” 

Why — what does it mean ? ” 

“ She has heard,” said Cecil, slipping down on to 
the fur rug dejectedly. “ She’s a dear, an angel, 
the kindest woman in Blankshire, but she always 
wants to be at the bottom of everything, she wants 


168 


TEE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


to know now why we are not going to be married 
until July.” 

“ She can’t put such a question plainly to you,” 
said the Bishop, who stood in no awe of Lady 
Yivian. 

“ Oh, can’t she ? ” said Cecil, dryly. “ That only 
shows how much you know about our dear friend. 
Can’t she ? Why, she not only would not mind 
putting such a question to me, but she wouldn’t 
hesitate to put it to you. I^ow, she has only known 
you since you came to Blankhainpton, but she has 
known me all my life. If she cannot get the infor- 
mation she wants out of me, or if I keep out of lier 
way, she will certainly manage to get it out of 
you.” 

“ I don’t think so,” said the Bishop, ‘‘ I don’t 
think so. You give our dear friend the credit of a 
great deal more acumen than she possesses. She 
will be a very clever woman if she discusses that 
question with me.” 

‘‘ Why, if she puts the question plump and plain 
to you, what would you say? What could you 
say ? ” 

“ I would tell her politely, and with my most 
episcopal air, to mind her own business,” said the 
Bishop, promptly ; “I would put on my robes, so to 
speak, and my ruffles, and my hood ; I would even, 
if necessary, put on my mitre ; and I would defy 


AND WHAT ELSE? 


169 


Lady Yivian or anybody else to ask me any per- 
sonal questions, if I had donned my mitre.” 

My dear — Bishop,” said Miss Constable, smil- 
ing, “ pray don’t take it into your episcopal head 
that your episcopal manner, or your episcopal robes, 
no, nor even your episcopal mitre itself, will save 
you from the cross-examination that you are bound 
to undergo at our dear Lady Vivian’s hands. My 
dear boy, she is the kindest soul in the world, it 
would be impossible to overrate her extreme kind- 
ness, her tenderness of heart, her overwhelming 
love toward all humanity, especially the humanity 
of her own set ; but when, dear woman, she has 
started her mind on a certain course, nothing, not 
even Bishops, would stop her. Don’t flatter your- 
self, for a moment, tliat this particular Bishop 
will do so. You see,” she added, “i^know Lady 
Yivian.” 


CHAPTER XIL 


CEOSS-QUESTIONS Al^D CROOKED ANSWERS. 

He that will have a cake out of the wheat 
Must tarry the grinding.” 

—Shakespeare. 

“ The words of a tale-bearer are as wounds.” 

— Proverbs. 

A FEW days later Miss Constable dutifully went 
over to Ingleby, and called upon her good friend 
and neighbor who was the chatelaine of that 
charming mansion. Xot a little to her joy, Lady 
Vivian was out, had indeed gone into Blankhamp- 
toii to do some shopping and to pay some calls. 

“ Oh, I am sorry,” said Cecil — which was a dis- 
tinct perversion of the truth, because she was in- 
deed very glad — “do tell Lady Vivian that I am so 
sorry to have missed her, and to have missed her 
the other day when she called upon me.” 

“I believe her ladyship will be at home to- 
morrow,” said the servant, fully believing in Miss 
Constable’s professions of regret. 


CEOSS-QUESTIOJSrS, CROOKED ANSWERS, 171 


“ All, blit I cannot come to-morrow — I am rather 
occupied just now — but pray tell Lady Yivian how 
very sorry I am to have missed her.” 

It seemed really as if Lady Yivian was fated not 
to get at the truth about the changes in the date of 
the Bishop’s marriage. On all hands she heard the 
news, and as many times as she heard it, just so 
many times did she hear a fresh reason for its having 
been put off. 

“ I always said that Cecil Constable didn’t care a 
button about the Bishop,” she heard Lady Alice 
Wynnard say one day; “how was it likely that she 
could, a girl like Cecil, who had done nothing but 
hunt and dance and play tennis and generally enjoy 
herself? Was it likely she would ever really take 
to a Bishop, however w’ell-born and however good- 
looking he happened to be?” 

“Oh, she’s devoted to him,” exclaimed Monica 
Beaumont, a cousin of Lady Alice’s. “ I’m sure the 
very way she looks at him is enough to tell that.” 

“She’s put off her marriage, all the same,” re- 
joined Lady Alice, dryly. 

“But she gives a very good reason,” said Monica 
Beaumont, quickly. “ She has scarcely had time to 
get her things ready ” 

“ I^onsense.” 

“ And she wants to go on a long tour, rather than 
going straight back to the Palace. Honestly, I 


172 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


think she is quite wise; after all, being engaged 
must be the best part of it all.” 

“ You have heard that Cecil Constable’s engage- 
ment is put off ? ” said Lady Lucifer, half an hour 
later. 

“Oh, 5 ^es,” poor Lady Yivian answered. “Do 
you know why ? ” 

“ Not 1. I have not the least notion. I heard it 
in — oh, well, I heard it the other day in Koxby, and 
I saw Cecil two days after and of course I asked her 
whjq and as she rather shut me up, 1 didn’t pursue 
the subject any further; but I saw them driving to- 
gether yesterday, and certainly she looked radiant. 
The last time I saw her to speak to I thought she 
was looking excessively ill, but she was certainly 
looking radiant when I saw her driving with the 
Bishop.” 

“ I dai’e say it had something to do with his en- 
gagements,” said Lady Yivian, who never encouraged 
the gratification of curiosity in other people. 

Quite a fortnight elapsed after this before Lady 
Yivian drove over to Raburn and was so fortunate 
as to find Miss Constable at home and alone. 

“How glad I am not to have missed you again,” 
she said, in her most motherly tones. 

“ Dear Lady Yivian,” said Cecil, going to meet 
her. She knew, of course, pretty well what was 
coming. 


GROSS-QUESTIONS, CROOKED ANSWERS. 173 


Lady Vivian complained a little of the east wind, 
and complimented Cecil on the pleasant warmth of 
her room, said she should be glad of a cup of tea, 
and when Cecil had poured it out and had generally 
ministered to her, she let fly the original bombshell 
which was the exact cause of her visit. 

“ I hear you have put off your marriage, Cecil,” 
she remarked, in a casual tone, much as she would 
have spoken of the putting off of the date of a 
journey for a few days. 

‘‘ Yes,” Cecil answered. 

‘‘I have heard it everywhere,” Lady Vivian went 
on, stirring her tea reflectively. “At first I could 
not believe it, because I had seen you so short a time 
before, and you had given me no hint that you were 
even thinkino* of such a thinoj.” 

“I don’t know that I had thought of it then,” 
Cecil answered. 

“But, my dear, why — why do you do it?” her 
ladyship asked, bluntly. 

“We put it off,” Cecil answered, “ because it was 
more convenient to us to do so.” 

“ More convenient ? What, on account of the 
Bishop’s engagements ? Ah, that was what Violet 
Lucifer said. I wonder you did not think of that 
before.” 

“ The fact is,” said Cecil, “ that before the Bishop 
asked me to marry him at all, he had fixed all his 


174 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


engagements down to the 8tli of July, and he could 
only take ten days or a fortnight if we were married 
at Easter, and I much prefer to go away for a longer 
time than that. If I were going to a strange neigh- 
borhood, I don’t know that I should have minded a 
short honeymoon ; but coming back to live in Blank- 
shire, so short a distance from home, and under such 
different circumstances, I much preferred to be away 
for a longer time and, therefore, we are going to be 
married at the end of July and shall be away for 
two months.” 

“You are quite sure, Cecil,” said Lady Vivian, 
determined to get to the bottom of what to her 
seemed to be a mystery, “ that you are making no 
mistake in this marriage ? ” 

“Mistake?” said Cecil. She turned a little red, 
as well she might, knowing all that lay between 
herself and the Bishop. “Why, what do you 
mean ? ” 

“Well, you are quite sure you are as much 
attached to the Bishop as you thought ? ” 

“ A great deal more so,” said Cecil, unhesitatingly. 

“ Of course, he must be more so too.” 

“ I have not seen any signs of his wanting to get 
out of it,” said Cecil, trying to turn the whole con- 
versation into a joke. 

“!No, dear, I don’t suppose he would try to get 
out of it, even if ” 


CEOSS-QUESTIOI^S, CROOKED ANSWERS. 175 


“ Even if lie did not care a button about me,” said 
Cecil. 

“ Well, dear, I was not going to put it in that 
way — but, of course, the Bishop is a man of 
honor.” 

“ I don’t think it is a question of honor with 
him,” said she. 

“ You are quite sure you have no doubt yourself, 
dear? ” Lady Yivian went on, pursuing the subject 
with relentless persistency. 

Cecil started as if she had been shot. 

“ Doubts — what made you say that ? ” 

“ I meant that you really do care for him ? 

“ Oh, dear, yes, of course. I shouldn’t marry him 
if I didn’t care for him — I would not marry any man 
if I didn’t care for him. What should I marry 
him for ? ” 

“ Well — position, for one thing.” 

“ Oh, his position is no better than mine — neither 
his position of birth nor his official position. 1 
should have thought,” she added, a little disdain- 
fully, “ that even in Blankhampton I should be free 
from such a suspicion as that. But there, one never 
knows what people may think nor how foolish they 
may be. But I do wish,” she went on, a little 
vexedly, ^‘that people would leave me and the 
Bishop to manage our own affairs and to mind our 
own business. What can it matter to anybody, 


176 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


when one marries or for what reason ? If a woman 
likes to marry for position, tliat is her business ; if 
she likes to marry for love, that is her business too; 
it can make no difference to anybody else.” 

“ I think, my dear child,” said Lady Yivian, 
kindly, and not in the least taking a word of Cecil’s 
vexed comment to herself, I think that everybody 
who is really nice, takes an interest in the marriages 
of those whom they know ; it is only kindly and 
pleasant for people to do so, not by any means inter- 
fering or anything of that kind. For instance, now, 
I take the greatest possible interest in you and the 
dear Bishop ; in you because you are you, and in the 
Bishop, because he is the Bishop and we respect him 
and like him ; and because we wish him to be 
married happily and suitably, both for his sake and 
for yours.” 

“ Oh, yes, yes — don’t think me ungracious,” cried 
Cecil, with some contrition, “ but you really don’t 
know how I have been badgered these last few days. 
People seem to think because we have decided to put 
our marriage off for a few weeks, that there is 
something dreadfully wrong between us. If it were 
so, it would be bad enough without being worried 
about it by everyone else. And it is not always easy 
to discuss your most private affairs and your most 
sacred feelings, even with your most intimate 
friends. I am sure it is better to let people worry 


CROSS-QUESTIONS, CROOKED ANSWERS. 177 

tlirougli their affairs, and even their troubles, with- 
out bothering them one way or another.’’ 

It’s not the kindest way,” said Lady Yivian. 

^‘Well, I don’t know; neglect is sometimes the 
kindest,” Cecil answered. 

There were many times during the next few 
weeks, when Miss Constable wished with all her 
heart that she could have married the Bishop, leav- 
ing doctrinal questions to take care of themselves. 

If only you had not been a Bishop,” she 
exclaimed vexedly to him on the evening of Lady 
Vivian’s visit, “ if only you had not been a Bishop, 
we could have got married and it would not have 
mattered — I mean, it would have not mattered so 
much, whether I accepted or denied certain things ; 
we could have agreed to differ on those points. And 
then people would not have been able to talk as 
they do now ; they have actually got some tale 
afloat that I am marrying you for your position.” 

‘‘ Not really ? ” 

“ Yes, really. Of course, I know it is a fine thing 
to be a Bishop, but, after all, Archie, in spite of your 
episcopal robes and your episcopal manner, we stand 
on an equality, you and T.” 

“ Perfectly so. But, my dearest,” he said, sooth- 
ingly, “why do you worry about these dear people? 
People will talk, they have talked ever since the 
world began, and they will talk as long as the world 
12 


178 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


lasts. It is human nature to talk. If you and I 
were not so wrapped up in our own affairs, we should 
probably talk more or less about other people’s. As 
for me, I am always interfering in other people’s 
business. Before I came to Blankhampton, I was the 
recipient of all the troubles, and joys, and woes, and 
pleasures, and anxieties of a good half of the people 
in my parish ; in fact, I got so used to dealing with 
other people’s affairs, rather than with my own, that, 
at last, I got to feel that it was absolutely wi*ong to 
spend a little time managing my own business. In 
our case now, I only wish that you would consent to 
let the future take care of itself. It would be so 
much the wiser course, because I am afraid, dearest, 
that even these three months will not serve to 
satisfy your mind, and your very anxiety to bring 
your thoughts to a certain issue will only tend to 
prevent any settlement in your mind. As it is 
now, you must feel that your inclinations press you 
one way and your doubts direct you another, there- 
fore you cannot honestly fix upon one side or 
another ; whereas, if the irrevocable step were 
taken, you could then do exactly as your reason 
best dictated.” 

“Yes, that is true,” she answered. “ But I 
don’t think that you — even you — can understand 
my feverish anxiety to believe what ray reason 
tells me is perfectly impossible.” 


CHAPTEE XIII. 


A NINE days’ wonder. 

“ Life is almost a meeting and a parting I 
A glimpse into the world of ‘ might have been.’” 

—Gerald Massey. 

“ The heart knoweth its own bitterness.” 

— Proverbs, 

Several weeks went by. The little buzz of 
wonder and gossip about the postponement of the 
Bishop’s marriage to Miss Constable died out, as 
such nine days’ wonders do. Blankhampton peo- 
ple held very much to their original opinions, and 
it must be confessed that very few of them indeed 
believed in the story of the bride-elect’s desire to 
have a longer honeymoon than she could have 
had, had the wedding taken place at Easter. Their 
common-sense told them that no bride would ever 
put a wedding ofP for such a reason. 

So Easter came and went, and still Blankhamp- 
ton people were hugely puzzled. That there was 
nothing wrong between the Bishop and his fiancee 


180 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


they were at times quite sure, at such times, indeed, 
as they happened to see them together, when Miss 
Constable always looked radiance and happiness 
personified. At other times, when they saw her 
alone, tliey told each other, not only that she was 
not happy in her approaching marriage, but that 
she was, from some cause or other, breaking her 
heart. 

“ I wonder,” said one Blankhampton woman to 
another, “ that the Bishop himself doesn’t see it. 
She looks ghastly. It is a very bad compliment to 
such a match as he is.” 

“Oh, but have jmu seen them together? They 
are perfectly wrapped up in each other.” 

“ I know they seem so. Look at her now,” said 
the first speaker, turning her eyes toward Cecil, 
who was on the other side of the room. 

“ Yes, I know — I know. But, all the same, she 
does not look like that when she is with him ; in- 
deed, you would hardl}^ know her for the same girl.” 

“ She looks miserable enough now,” said the 
other, in a tone of conviction. 

“ Poor thing, yes. 1 wonder what it is. Per- 
haps she is overwhelmed with the responsibility of 
the situation.” 

“ Oh, I don’t see why she should be. Mrs. Cot- 
tenham was never overwhelmed with the responsi- 
bilities of her situation as a bishop’s wife.” 


A NINE T)AYS^ WONDER. 


181 


“ITo ; but she had been married a long time be- 
fore he was made a bishop. She didn’t marry him 
as a bishop, which does make a difference, you 
know.” ' 

“ Yes, perhaps it does.” 

The sentimental Maria perliaps entered into Miss 
Constable’s real feelings more truly than any of 
those who knew her personally. It happened that 
the languishing lady was in the principal jeweller’s 
shop in St. Thomas’s Street, having gone for the 
purpose of buying herself a new watch, for which 
she had been saving up for a long time. And 
while she was standing by the counter with all the 
watches spread out before her on their velvet-cov- 
ered trays. Miss Constable’s little cart stopped at 
the door of the shop. She came in a moment later 
and approached the counter at which the sentimen- 
tal Maria was standing. 

“ Oh, Mr. Ward,” she said, in her pleasant, well- 
modulated tones, “ I fancy one of these opals is a 
little loose. I would like you to look at it.” 

She drew her glove off her left hand and, slip- 
ping off the opal ring which the Bishop had given 
her, handed it to the jeweller. 

“ It should not be loose. Miss Constable,” he said, 
as he took it from her. “ It is one of our own set- 
ting, and I particularly tested it before it was sent 
home to you. But opals are rather tricky stones to 


182 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


manage. However, it can be put right in a few 
minutes.’’ 

He screwed a glass into his eye and turned to the 
light that he might the better examine the ring. 

The sentimental Maria’s keen eyes marked its 
beauty, and she wondered whether Miss Constable 
had been an October child or not. From the ring 
her eyes wandered to its owner’s face. She was 
standing with her arms resting on the rather high 
glass-covered counter, carelessly looking down upon 
the contents of the cases below. Maria noted what 
a pretty hand she had. A slender hand and white, 
without being at all sickly looking. She noted, too, 
the lustrous half-hoop of diamonds upon the third 
finger and realized, in a moment, that the opals had 
not been her engagement ring. 

“One of the stones is a little loose. Madam,” 
said Mr. Ward, coming back to the counter again; 
“ but it is a mere trifle. I’ll have it put right in a 
few minutes. Are you remaining in the town for 
any time ? ” 

“ No,” she answered, “ I am going straight home 
— I am on my way home now. It does not matter, 
Mr. Ward, I’ll wait till it is done. I will look at 
these pretty things here.” 

She made a little movement of her hand as if to 
excuse him from attending her, and he turned back 
to wait upon the sentimental Maria. 


A WmE BAYS^ WONDER. 


183 


‘‘ I have another watch which I should particu- 
larly like you to see,” he said to her. “ If you will 
excuse me for a moment, I will fetch it.” 

And Maria excused him, saying that she was in 
no hurry, which was true ; moreover, she was very 
well entertained in taking notes of Miss Constable. 
Not because she was Miss Constable, but because of 
the proprietary interest which she still permitted 
herself to feel in the Bishop to whom Miss Con- 
stable was engaged to be married. 

Miss Constable was wearing a light tan-colored 
driving-coat, made with several capes and very big 
buttons ; and she wore a little red velvet hat upon 
her soft dark hair. To Maria she looked the es- 
sence of refinement and good breeding, but she 
noticed that her face vras set in sad, almost stern 
lines, and that the shadows under her eyes were 
very dark and deep. 

‘‘How ill she looks,” the sentimental Maria 
thought. “ Poor girl, she is overwhelmed with 
the responsibilities of her new life.” 

Instinctively Maria knew very much what Miss 
Constable was feeling, by her knowledge of what 
she herself would have felt had she been placed in 
her present situation ; indeed, it gave her some- 
thin or like a throb at the heart, even to think of an- 
other’s marriage with the man who was her secret 
hero and the object of her most ardent admiration. 


184 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


Presently the jeweller returned. 

“The watch will be ready in a moment, Madam,” 
he said, in an undertone. “ Th6 fact is, in showing 
it the other day, I broke one of the hands and it is 
being put on ; if yon don’t mind waiting a minute 
or so, it will show to better advantage than with- 
out it.” 

“ Oh, I don’t mind at all,” said Maria, with a 
little gush of feeling that if Miss Constable did not 
mind waiting neither need she. 

There was a moment’s silence, during which the 
jeweller divided wordless attentions between his 
two customers. It was Miss Constable who broke 
the silence. 

“That’s a pretty thing, Mr. Ward,” she said, 
pointing to something in the case on the coun- 
ter. 

“ That cameo with the pearls, Madam ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Yes, I should like to see it.” 

He opened the back of the case and took out the 
tray upon which the cameo was lying, among a 
quantity of other trinkets. 

“It is not new,” she remarked. 

“ Oh, no, Madam, quite an antique. I took it in 
exchange some years ago.” 

“ Eeally ? Is it expensive ? ” 

“ Ho, Madam, not for what it is. I never make 


A NINE DAYS^ WONDER. 1S5 

very mucli upon these trinkets. It is five pounds^ 
ten.” 

“ Oh ! I think I will have it. I have not seen 
anything so pretty for a long time. I will take it 
with me. But I have no money — at least, I have 
only a few shillings in my pocket.” 

Mr. Ward, however, expressed himself absolutely 
indifferent upon the question of money ; indeed, 
one might have imagined from his deprecating airs 
and looks, that he would rather not be paid for 
anything that he parted with in the ordinary way 
of business ; but that is the way of a good many 
tradespeople, until you have done the deed. 

“ What is that ? ” she asked, taking, in her un- 
gloved hand, a little coral charm. 

‘‘ I don’t know that it is anything particular, 
Madam,” he answered. “ I came by that in the 
same way. Indeed, most of the articles in this tray 
are what I have taken in exchange for more mod- 
ern things. The lady from whom I took that told 
me that she had brought it from Naples, and that 
she had picked it up there in a little shop in a back 
street. I wondered that she was willing to part 
with it. It is very interesting — but though a good 
many ladies have looked at it, nobody has cared to 
buy it. You see. Miss Constable, charms have 
gone out of fashion lately.” 

“Yes, I suppose they have,” said Cecil. “But it 


186 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


is very pretty. Sucli things ought never to go 
out.” 

The cliarm was a tiny Agnus Dei in coral, with 
a band of gold about its girth, so that it could hang 
by a little ring in the middle of its back. 

“ How much is it ? ” she asked. 

Oh, quite reasonable. Madam ; thirty-five shil- 
lings.” 

“I will have that too,” she said. “And now, 
put the tray away, or else I shall be wanting some- 
thing else.” 

“Would you like these in separate boxes?” said 
Mr. Ward, as he shut the back of the case with a 
click. 

“ Yes — no — yes, you may as well put them in 
boxes. I think that antique ought to have a case 
— you ouglit to give me a case for that.” 

“ I will. Madam, with pleasure,” he answered ; 
“ and here is j’our ring. I don’t think the stones 
will come loose again.” 

At that moment the Bishop walked into the 
shop. Miss Constable looked up, her color rising 
and a sudden flood of radiance lighting up her face. 

“ Oh, is that you ! ” she exclaimed. “ I did not 
expect to see you this afternoon.” 

“No, nor I. But I was on my way from the sta- 
tion and I saw your cart at the door.” 

“ I have been buying you a present,” she said, 


A NINE DAYS' WONDER. 


187 


holding lip the little charm. ‘‘ I also bought one 
for myself, but, of course, that does not count.” 

“ Then I think that I ought to buy one for you,” 
said the Bishop, looking at her with all his soul in 
his eyes. “ This is very charming, Mr. Ward, I 
didn’t know you had anything so precious in your 
stock.” 

“ Well, you see, my lord,” said Mr. Ward, smirk- 
ing, “jmu don’t take very much interest in these 
vanities — at least, not for yourself.” 

“Well, I don’t know so much about that,” an- 
swered the Bishop, “ I like pretty things as well as 
anybody. If you are going to give me that now, I 
will have it put on my watch-chain at once. I am 
del is;!! ted with it.” 

It was as good as a play to the sentimental 
Maria, but from that moment she regarded the 
Bishop in a totally new light. She had thought of 
him as being always in the episcopal robes and 
with his episcopal manner ; she had never dreamed 
of him as an ordinary person, as a man who could 
look delighted and wax quite enthusiastic over a 
coral charm. 

“ Why, what has happened to your ring ? ” he 
asked, seeing her slip it on her finger again. 

“ Oh, nothing much. One of the stones was a 
little loose, that was all,” she replied. “ I thought 
I had better get it put right.” 


188 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


“ I believe that that ring is thoronghlj nnlnchy,” 
said the Bishop, resting his arms on the glass- 
topped counter, and looking at Miss Constable 
with a proud and well-satisfied look. The sen- 
timental Maria gasped. The idea of a Bishop 
talking of anything being lucky or unlucky was 
a revelation to her. Miss Constable, however, only 
laughed. 

“ You had better exchange it for something 
else,” he went on. “Now, you were a December 
child, so you ought to wear turquoises ; they would 
bring you good luck. And besides that, they are 
much prettier than opals, which always give me an 
uncanny sort of feeling. They’i'e so like eyes that 
have got cataract upon them.” 

The sentimental Maria nearly had a fit. For the 
first time, she thoroughly blamed the Bishop’s 
bride-elect in her heart, for instead of submitting 
instantly to have her opals changed for turquoises, 
she remarked obstinately that she would prefer to 
keep them, and that if he wanted to give her a tur- 
quoise ring, he could do so. 

“ I suppose you have turquoise rings, Mr. 
Ward ? ” said the Bishop. 

Mr. Ward replied that he had. 

But Cecil interposed, with a courteous gesture 
toward the sentimental Maria. 

“No, Mr. Ward, this lady came before me; I 


A NINE I)AYS^ WONDER. 


189 


cannot keep her waiting while I choose anything 
else. Please, do attend to her first.” 

The sentimental Maria almost wept as she de- 
clared that time was of no consequence to her what- 
ever, and that she would have had to wait just as 
long had there been nobody else in the shop. The 
Bishop, however, took off his hat and gravely in- 
sisted that they could not be served before her, and 
Mr. Ward called one of his assistants to hand out 
all the turquoise rings of which he was possessed, 
and himself attended to the fiushed and excited 
lady, who was so intensely interested by the little 
romantic comedy which had so unexpectedly laid 
itself before her. 

However, Maria did not lose any of the pla3\ 
Before she had fully made up her mind as to the 
choice of a watch. Miss Constable had chosen a 
beautiful ring, a half-hoop of turquoises. She put 
it on her finger there and then, as she laughingly 
said, for luck between the diamonds and the opals. 
Then the Bishop took off his watch and chain that 
the charm, just presented to him by his fiancee, 
might be attached thereto. Mr. Ward’s assistant 
suggested that the charm certainly would be the 
better for a rub up ; and, receiving the Bishop’s 
assent, disappeared with it into the back premises. 
The Bishop and Miss Constable remained at the 
counter talking together, but although the senti- 


190 


TEE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


mental Maria’s attention was supposed to be occu- 
pied by the jeweller and the wartches, yet like the 
weazel, which sleeps with one eye open, she man- 
aged to keep an ear unoccupied for the receipt of 
their conversation. 

“ You are coming out to Eaburn to-night?” she 
heard Miss Constable say in familiar undertone. 

“ Yes, I intended to do so.” 

‘‘ What a pity you can’t come back with me,” she 
went on. 

“ So I will if you like — that is, if you think your 
cart will bear me.” 

Oh, I think it will carry you ; it carries Will- 
iam occasionally, and William weighs seventeen 
stones.” 

“ Who is William ? ” asked the Bishop. 

‘‘ Oh, William is the stately person who presides 
over our stables. He comes one in precedence of 
Matthew, and poor dear Father cannot call his soul 
his own when William’s word has gone forth. In- 
deed, I am the only person of whom William stands 
in any awe ; and I think that William’s awe of me 
consists mainly in the fact that I had the unparal- 
leled audacity to be born a girl, when I ought to 
have been born a boy. He considers if 1 had nerve 
enough to do that, I should have nerve enough to 
snap his head off, if I felt like it. Once or twice 
he has borrowed my cart when something has hap- 


A NINE DAYS^ WONDER, 


191 


pened to liis own ; but I always lend it on condition 
that if it is broken, it is repaired out of the ordi- 
nary stable expenses and not as a smash of mine. 
But tell me, if yon come back with me how will you 
get home ? ” 

“Well, unless I send a note up to the Palace to 
tell them to send for me, I couldn’t get home,” the 
Bishop answered. 

“ I tell you what we will do,” said Miss Con- 
stable, “I will send my boy up to the Palace with a 
message from you, and he can come back with your 
carriage. Then I think my cart will just manage 
to hold you,” laughing again. 

Very well ; then that is what we will do. You 
won’t mind my not being dressed, will you ? ” 

“ Oh no, that is one of the advantages of being a 
Bishop,” she said, smiling, “ you always look pre- 
sentable. iSTow here is your watch and chain back 
again.” 

The Bishop put the chain on and admired him- 
self a little, and finally they went out of the shop 
with kindly farewells, attended by the jeweller to 
the edge of the curb. 

The sentimental Maria went home, and pondered 
in the loneliness of her virtuous domicile upon the 
inner life of a man of such standing as the Bishop 
of Blankhampton. I will not pretend that the in- 
cident had not been somewhat of a shock to her. 


192 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


To hear such a man told that he always looked pre- 
sentable. To hear such a man chaffed a little about 
the likelihood of the cart’s breaking down under his 
\veight. To hear him told, in that joking way, of 
the advantages of being a Bishop — as if there could 
be any (^md vantages to that illustrious position ! 

She is very fond of him,” said Mfiria to herself, 
more than once ; “ how different she looked when he 
came in, to what she looked before. And 3^et, there 
is something. No girl who was perfectly happy 
could look so sad as she did. She is happy and she 
isn’t happy ; she looks to me as if she was breaking 
her heart.” 


CHAPTER XIY. 


CALM DI8CUSSI01T. 


“ Strong son of God, immortal Love, 

Whom we, that have not seen thy face, 

By faith, and faith alone, embrace. 

Believing when we cannot prove I ” 

—Tennyson. 

“ Give therefore thy servant an understanding heart.” 

— Kmgs, 

How, during all this time the Bishop was exceed- 
ingly considerate and good to his fiancee, whose 
storm-tossed mind seemed in no way to be drawing 
nearer to a haven of possible belief. Had he re- 
verted much to the cause by which their marriage 
had been put off, I think she would have broken 
down altogether ; but, as it was, he never so much 
as hinted at the disturbed state in which he knew 
her mind to be. 

As soon as Easter had gone by, tlie whole neigh- 
borhood seemed to rouse itself into a perfect epi- 
demic of dinner giving, and on all these solemnly 
13 


194 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


festive occasions, tlie Bishop and Miss Constable 
were made to feel themselves the principal guests. 
Cecil had always been a person of considerable im- 
portance in Blankshire, but now, for the time being 
at least, she found herself in the position of being 
the most important woman in the entire county. 
With every day it seemed as if the Bishop’s per- 
sonal popularity increased, and although with every 
day her love for him grew stronger, yet so did her 
want of faith in those tenets which to him were es- 
sential, both in this world and the next, grow more 
and more confirmed. She was very unhappy. 

May went over and June came in. Whenever 
the Bishop preached within reasonable distance of 
Blankhampton, Cecil Constable was to be seen among 
the congregation, but I do not think that his sermons 
helped her in the smallest. They wei*e sermons that 
w’ould have helped most people anxious for help in 
the ordinary every-day current of life, but, like most 
advanced thinkers, the Bishop was not great on 
doctrinal points. 

He was not in any sense an argumentative preacher. 
With him, if the truth be told, the beautiful life 
was infinitely of more importance than the cut and 
dried faith. Had he been either an extreme High 
church- or an extreme Low church-man, he would 
have been better able to argue her out of the posi- 
tion in which she found herself. But, you see, the 


CALM DISCUSSION, 


195 


Bishop was neither High nor Low ; he was of that 
moderate advanced section, which shelters itself, its 
inconsistencies, behind its works, so much at variance 
with its attested faith, its many improvements on 
the original scheme of episcopal Christianity, which 
calls itself Broad. In ordinary every-day life, your 
Broad churchman is wonderfully clever at letting 
the question of doctrine alone ; in modern language, 
he lets it slide : and it is only when you bring him 
up face to face with a plain question, requiring a 
plain yes, or no, for answer, that you can ever induce 
him to explain what his faith really is. So far as 
my experience goes, your Broad churchman swallows 
the Thirty-nine Articles in a lump, as one tries to 
swallow a pill without tasting it. He takes them 
very much as ordinary people take a pill. We know 
there are all sorts of horrible things in it, but some 
of them seem to do us good, and so we don’t inquire 
too closely into the internal composition of the little 
sugar-coated globe, which we pop down our throats, 
leaving the rest to Providence. It is true that the 
majority of churchmen of all shades of color between 
Bitualists and Evangelical, believe that the general 
scheme of the Church’s constitution is good, that 
although many of these doctrinal points have become 
more or less old-fashioned and obsolete (in deed if 
not in word), yet, taken as a whole, it could not well 
be improved upon. Most of them believe that any 


196 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


tampering with a constitution which has stood firm 
during so many years, would do more harm to 
the general cause of Christianity, as accomplished 
through the established Church, than a new and 
possibly more rational order of things would be like- 
ly to do good. 

It would be worse than foolish of me to pretend 
that a m.au so enlightened, so advanced in Chris- 
tianity, so pure of purpose, and of so blameless a life 
as the Bishop of Blankhampton, could believe for 
one moment that an innocent and unconscious baby 
dying unbaptized, should suffer the torture of the 
damned to the end of time. For my own part, I 
have never yet found a clergyman of the Church of 
England who would definitely declare that he be- 
lieved, in its literal sense, a doctrine so unnecessarily 
diabolical as this. To an ordinary mind, troubled 
upon such a point, the Bishop of Blankhampton 
would have said : 

‘‘ You must not forget that these Articles were 
framed in a very hard time, that there was still very 
much of the eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth 
theory about the Church Fathers of that day. It was 
still believed in a literal sense that the sins, even 
the spiritual sins, of the fathers should be visited on 
the children, not only until the third and fourth 
generation, but unto the end of time — of time which 
has no end.” 


CALM DISCUSSION. 197 

I can scarcely tell you how he longed at this time 
to say to her, on this very point : 

“ Dearest, why trouble your dear little ignorant 
head on such points as these ? Leave it all to me. 
Let me tell you what to believe. Let me explain to 
you what interpretation you ought to put on certain 
portions both of Scripture and of the Church’s 
Articles.” 

But he did not say it, because Cecil was too des- 
perately in earnest. She was too eager and anxious 
— “ If you could only make things clear to me,” she 
burst out one day, when they had been talking of 
their future life.” 

‘‘ My dear child, you ought to be sensible enough 
to understand, you ought to be sufficiently enlight- 
ened to be able to read between the lines as it were, 
you ought to be able to realize that the holy men 
of those days who framed those Articles, compiled 
them to the very best of their belief ; but that they 
were men of limited understanding is, to a cer- 
tain extent, indisputable. At that time of day, the 
religious life tended toward narrowness; the old 
Fathers of the Church had to work by fear rather 
than by common sense, upon the minds of a people 
who were guided, as it used to be the fashion to 
guide children, not through their hearts — but 
through their senses, their senses of touch, feeling, 
hearing, and sight. In those days, to put the mat- 


198 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP, 


ter into the simplest possible every-day language, 
those who were devoted to a religious life, had no 
idea of doing what Christ Himself did, of making 
the ordinary every-day life and the religious life 
one. No, their greatest idea of religion was to mor- 
tify and punish the flesh, to out-Herod Herod, as it 
were, in the way of — oh, forgive me, my dearest, 
but you ask me for the most every-day language — 
of piling up the agony. The people were lawless 
and, for the most part, very ignorant, and minor 
crimes were frequently punished with death. If a 
man stole a sheep he was hanged ; if a man set a 
rick on Are, even by accident, he was hanged ; if he 
stole a turnip out of a fleld, it was ten chances to 
one that he was hanged for it. The whole tone of 
the age was severe, and it was also unbridled. So 
severity in religion was as unbridled as was severity 
in the putting down of law- breaking. Therefore, it 
is not to be wondered at that the Articles of Re- 
ligion are exceedingly severe in their tone. But to 
alter these things now would be to lay ourselves 
open to the scorn of every sect which has dissented 
from us. You will not And any religion that works 
with absolute harmony in every particular ; when 
that religion is found the great work of evangeliza- 
tion will be over, the world will be evangelized. 
But that will only be at the millennium. You have 
never heard me say that any church or, for the 


CALM discussion. 


199 


matter of that, our church, is a perfectly constituted 
body. There is no such thing as perfection in this 
world, at least not of corporate perfection. The 
very best, and purest, and most holy of men and 
women, may absolutely disagree with the ideas and 
most carefully cherished plans of others, and the 
natural friction of disagreement may widen into a 
bridgeless gulf, without the very slightest fault upon 
either side. But although I do not hold up the 
constitution of our church as being perfect, I do say 
that it is the best that has ever been built up, that 
it will last the longest of all the creeds, and that it 
will do more good work tlian any other form of re- 
ligion in this country.” 

“ But,” cried Cecil, “ you preach one thing and 
you believe another.” 

“ No,” he said, “ I do not preach it, I accept it. 
I accept certain points, as being the least of several 
evils. You know St. Paul said — I know your ob- 
jection to texts, but this is a simple text which 
should be at the tips of all tongues — ‘ All things 
are lawful, but all things are not expedient.’ ” 

“ I don’t see,” said Cecil, what that has to do 
with the subject in question.” 

The Bishop smiled. 

“ My dear,” he said, “ it has everything to do 
with it. It would be lawful for the leading men of 
the Church to-day, to form themselves into a body 


200 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


and give voice to tlie general feeling that the point 
about infant baptism being necessary to salvation, 
should be eliminated from our Articles of Faith ; 
but it would not be expedient. You know,” he 
went on, “ there are some churches that do not 
accept that doctrine, there are churches which have 
made other radical changes from our creed, not be- 
cause they were anxious to break away from the 
Mother Church, but solely because their minds re- 
fused to accept certain things which the Church 
does not see her way to alter. But time has shown 
that, although those changes have been made, these 
churches do not work more smoothly, do not give 
more solid satisfaction to their members, do not 
accomplish more labor in the human vineyard, than 
the Mother Church has done and is doing. It is an 
ascertained fact, it is proved beyond all question of 
doubt, that you cannot pull any constitution to 
pieces without doing a vast amount of harm. You 
can never build it up again to what it was before 
you began to tamper with the main supports. And 
so most men and women to-day are contented to 
treat these Articles to a certain extent as a matter of 
form, not to be taken literally, word for word, any 
more than you would take the whole Bible, literally 
word for word, from one end to the other. You 
could not, knowing me, believe that I could, in its 
literal sense, put forward the doctrine that baptism 


CALM DISCUSSION. 


201 


is necessary, literally necessary, to prevent an inno- 
cent baby of a few hours’ old being burned forever 
to the end of time. Yet it is necessary that chil- 
dren should be baptized.” 

“ I don’t see it,” said Cecil. 

“ No, perhaps you do not. That is because you 
are troubled in your mind, and you have only just 
begun to think about a subject which needs a life- 
time to understand, and you look at it, now that 
you have begun to think about it, from an un- 
educated, and unskilful, and wholly prejudiced 
point of view.” 

“ But,” said Cecil, “there is the fact that the poor 
baby was buried without any religious service what- 
ever — as the mother put it, buried like a dog ; and 
the vicar of the parish expressed himself deeply 
grieved to have to deny the mother the consolation 
of the usual service. And yet, his grief wouldn’t 
allow him to bury the child ! ” 

“ Well, in a technical sense,” said the Bishop, 
deprecatingly. 

“ Technical ? But there ought to be no tech- 
nicality in religion,” she said. 

“ Well, neither ought there to be, and when we find 
ourselves gathered together in that heaven, to which 
most of us are looking, we may be quite sure that 
there we shall have no technicalities to contend with ; 
but here we do have them and we must put up with 


202 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


them. For my part,” said the Bishop, “ when I was 
in the way of taking funerals, 1 never asked any 
questions ; I took it for granted that the child had 
been baptized.” 

“ That was what our Rector told me,” she cried. 
‘‘ He went further than that ; he said, ‘ When I 
know that a baby has not been baptized, I alwaj^s 
send and ask some other parson to take the service 
for me ; I get out of it that way.’ ” 

“ A very sensible man,” said the Bishop. “ But 
you will never find a whole body of men, of such 
numbers as the clergy of the Church of England, all 
endowed with common-sense to such a degree as the 
Rector of Raburn seems to be. As a matter of fact, 
that is one of the Church’s greatest weaknesses ; 
Bishops are not half particular enough whom they 
ordain. The standard now is a standard of learning 
and personal character, but that is not really 
enough. If I had my way I would to a great ex- 
tent study personal appearance and manner ; and I 
would make every candidate for ordination pass 
through a viva voce examination in every-day com- 
mon-sense. However, I suppose it wouldn’t work,” 
he added, regretfully, “ and I am perfectly sure that 
a certain set would simply howl when the suggestion 
was put forward. So far as I can see, dearest,” he 
went on, taking her hands in his and looking at her 
with great affection, “your situation practically is 


CALM mSCUSSION. 


203 


this : Being very holy-minded yourself, you do not 
require to have your plan of life laid out for you, as 
it has been found necessary to lay out the plan of 
life or religion, which should be the same thing, for 
those less ready than you are to take the good road 
first. If the whole world were like you, a Creed 
would scarcely be necessary, because in that case 
everybody would follow the broad teaching of Christ 
himself, which is so simple, so admirably clear, and 
so utterly unhampered by technicalities and subject 
for doubt. It is because the Fathers of the Chui’ch 
went beyond these simple truths, that such minds 
as yours are troubled by the apparent inconsistencies, 
or if you will have it so, the evident inconsistencies 
in the Church Creed. You know it has always been 
my belief that it is infinitely better to say too little 
than too much ; I have found that in every relation 
of life. The Fathers of the Church, those who 
framed the Thirty-nine Articles, erred in explaining 
a little too far, which is all very well for us, who 
understand how to make allowances for the differ- 
ences which four hundred years have made between 
their ideas and ours, who understand how to lay 
stress on the broad truths which no sensible or 
right-minded person can deny or wish to deny, and 
those explanatory details, which must have been 
perfectly clear to those who put them forward four 
hundred years ago. I think,’’ he went on, “ that if 


204 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


we could frame a new constitution for the Church 
now, we should frame it more nearly on the actual 
teaching of Christ than any constitution which has 
yet been compiled. For instance, if you look at 
the Baptismal Service, you will find that parents 
are exhorted to teach their children the Creed — the 
Creed, meaning of course the Apostles’ Creed — the 
Lord’s Prayer, and the Ten Commandments in the 
vulgar Tongue. Taken broadly, these comprise 
everything that is necessary for the Christian life. 
Any man or woman who keeps the Ten Command- 
ments, must of necessity be leading an absolutely 
good life. Any one who believes in the Apostles’ 
Creed must of equal necessity be believing every- 
thing that is essential for the Christian Church ; 
while the Lord’s Prayer, which we have straight from 
the highest Christian authority of all, Christ Himself, 
is simply the broadest, the simplest, and yet the 
most perfect expression of a religious faith that it is 
possible for any human being to make. Speaking 
to you, not as your futui-e husband, not as the man 
who loves you with his whole heart, but as a clergy- 
man, as a Bishop, I would have you believe that 
these three, the Ten Commandments, the Lord’s 
Prayer, and the Apostles’ Creed, are absolutely 
sufficient for you to use as landmarks of faith. 
All the rest, you may safely put aside and honestly 
believe that they are as nothing to you.” 


CALM DISCUSSION. 


205 


For some little time Cecil Constable did not 
speak. 

“We won’t talk about it anymore just now,” she 
said, at last ; “ I would like to think over everything 
that you have said without any further argument. 
You have given me more comfort to-day than I 
have had ever since those terrible doubts first came 
into my mind. I would like to think before I say 
another word.” 


CHAPTER XY. 


COULECR DE ROSE. 

“ To the tears I have shed and regret not 
What matters a few more tears ; 

Or a few days waiting longer, 

To one that has waited for years ? ” 

— Owen Meredith. 

“ Truly the light is sweet.” 

—Ecclesiastes. _ 

The Bishop went away from Rabnrn that after- 
noon feeling that, practically speaking, the way was 
now smooth and clear between his fiancee and him- 
self. Without doubt, he loved her the more for the 
very attitude of mind which had cost her such acute 
and keen distress during the past few months. His 
thoughts went back to that brilliant summer morn- 
ing, when he had first set eyes upon her in the 
choir of the Parish. How well he remembered the 
scene. The stately edifice with its richness of carv- 
ing, its priceless old oak, its rare old windows and 
inlaid reredos ; the exquisite music and imposing 
ritual, all culminating to him in that one eager soul, 


COULEUR BE ROSE, 207 

vainly seeking for satisfaction, as it looked at him 
through Cecil Constable’s beautiful eyes. 

He smiled tenderly to himself, as he thought of 
all that had come about since that day. Of how it 
had been fated that they should have met soul to 
soul, as well as face to face. To him, it was as if 
the past had been ordained, for the mutual society, 
help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of 
the other, both in prosperity and adversity. 

We are all of us in this world, however, prone to 
believe what we want to believe, and good and wise 
as the Bishop of Blankhampton was, he was no ex- 
ception to the general rule. He wanted to believe 
that Cecil Constable w^ould find her chaotic and 
troubled thoughts turned into the smooth path of 
conventional belief, and it was but natural that he 
should see only rose-lit smooth waters ahead. 

Miss Constable herself was in no such happy 
frame of mind. She sat where he had left her for 
a long time without moving, thinking over what he 
had said to her. She knew that, from his point of 
view, he had been absolutely right in everything 
that had fallen from his lips. But the point of 
view was the stumbling-block. She felt he was 
rifflit in what he had said about those terrible 
Thirty-nine Articles, that they must be taken in 
the spirit and not in any sense by the letter. She 
felt that he was perfectly right in saying that the 


208 


TEE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


Church’s constitution, though not perfect bj any 
means, had yet never been improved upon, and that 
it would never do to tamper with it in these later 
days. She knew that he had justified himself 
.against her charge of accepting one doctrine and 
preaching another. And great peace stole into 
her soul as she realized, for the first time, that as 
Archibald Netherby’s wife she would have, in the 
years to come, not more but less temptation to in- 
quire too closely into the whys and wherefores of 
the faith in which he believed so implicitly. 

She never moved until the first bell rang for din- 
ner. The Bishop had been gone quite two hours, 
for he was giving a dinner at the Palace that night 
to certain important ones among his clergy, many 
of whom were staying with him. She rose from 
the wide sofa and seated herself at the inlaid writ- 
ing-table ; then she opened her blotting-book and 
wrote a short note. 

“ Deakest,” it said, 

“ I know that you will be busy when you get 
this, but I must tell you that you have set my mind 
at rest — I hope forever. 

“ Your Cecil.” 

She addressed it to the Bishop and rang the bell. 

“ Oh, Matthew,” she said, when that functionary 


COULEUR DE ROSL. 209 

appeared, “ I want you to send Thomas over to the 
Palace at once with this. He can take my cart, or 
as William may direct.” 

Sir Edward was in town for a few days, whither 
Cecil had steadfastly refused to accompany him, so 
that she dined alone. But she was not dull ; she 
was not even lonely. She chatted a little with Mat- 
thew, hearing quite a little budget of village news 
and information, and then she went back to her 
own sanctum and gave Ruffy a concert all to him- 
self. In truth Cecil Constable had not felt so full 
of peace and happiness for many months. 

Her note was put into the Bishop’s hand as soon 
as it arrived at the Palace, for the servant who re- 
ceived it naturally thought that it might be impor- 
tant. The dinner itself was actually over, but the 
gentlemen were still lingering over their dessert. 

“ The groom does not know if any answer is re- 
quired, my lord,” said the footman. 

The Bishop looked up. 

“ Do you permit me ? ” he said to his guests, who 
all conveyed by gestures their desire that he should 
make the contents of the letter his own. 

The eifect of the short note acted like magic up- 
on the Bishop, for, as he realized what Cecil had 
written and the depth of the affection which could 
not bear to keep him a moment longer in suspense 
than was absolutely necessary, such a flood of joy 
14 


210 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


rushed into his heart, that he almost broke down 
under it. 

“ Tell the groom to wait ; I will write an answer 
in a few minutes,” he said, with what calmness he 
could command ; then folded the note and put it 
away in his breast pocket. 

‘‘ Pleasant news, I hope. Bishop,” said the Dean 
of Blankhampton, who sat at his right hand. 

“ My dear Dean,” said the Bishop, “ the best 
news of any that could have come to me. I was 
not exactly unhappy when I sat down to this table, 
but truly, I don’t think that the whole world holds 
a man more supremely contented with his lot than 
I am at this moment.” 

“ That is good,” said the Dean, heartily. “ But 
don’t mind us, if you want to go and write an an- 
swer.” 

“Thank you very much, I will go and do it, since 
yon allow me. I shall not be five minutes.” 

On his way to the study, he had to pass the door 
of the chapel, which, as usual^ was dimly lighted. 
It was a beautiful little shrine, carved and gilded, 
and wrought with mosaic and precious stones, with 
many-colored marbles, and rare old windows, rival- 
ling those of the Parish in beauty. In front of the 
altar a lamp always hung, and it was the Bishop’s 
wish that it should never be extinguished. He 
passed in and went straight up to the Altar-rail, 


COULEUE DE ROSE. 


211 


when he knelt down ; bnt what his prayer was or 
what his pasan of praise and thanksgiving, is not 
for me to tell or for you to hear. It was not long, 
but there are some moments of our lives in which 
short measure makes over-weight. 

Then he went on to the study and wrote literally 
three lines to his sweetheart. 

“ Your letter came to me,” he said. “ God be 
thanked, my darling, is the prayer of your always 
devoted 

“ Archie.” 

After this the preparations for the wedding went 
blithely on. Cecil Constable wrote to her father 
that night and said, “ If it will please you, I will 
come up to town the day after to-morrow, and will 
stay a few days. I shall not come till the three 
o’clock train, if you will come or send Badger to 
meet me. I shall bring Louise. I think you had 
better send me a wire as soon as you receive 
this.” 

For the first time for many months she went to 
sleep the moment she got into bed, with the satis- 
fied weariness of a child, a child who has to think 
about nothing, a child who is not even afraid of 
bogies. And in the morning, when she came down, 
she looked, as the discreet Matthew expressed it to 


212 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


his friend, the cook, as if a load had been taken off 
her shoulders. 

“ I don’t know what’s come to our young Miss,” 
he remarked, “ she seems so gay and so happy, and 
you’d think when Sir Edward’s away and the Bishop 
had a dinner-party last night, that she would have 
been dull. But not a bit of it, she’s as blithe as a 
bird.” 

“ I don’t see why she shouldn’t be happy,” said 
the cook, sensibly. “ Miss Constable isn’t a young 
lady as has nothing to occupy herself with — she’s a 
sensible woman ; she isn’t a doll, she never was a 
doll.” 

“ She hasn’t looked happy lately, Mrs. Fincher,” 
said Matthew, with conviction. 

“ Well, a great many young ladies don’t look 
very happy when they’re just going to be married,” 
said Mrs. Fincher, dogmatically. “ It’s a very seri- 
ous business, I’ve always said so, and I’ve always 
’eld to the same thing ; and I always tell the girls 
in the ’ouse they can’t think too much about mar- 
riage beforehand, for it’s no use thinking about it 
after. Miss Constable isn’t the kind of young lady 
that it would be right to be going and giving of 
’erself away as if she wa& a bundle of rags not 
worth twopence ha’penny. It’s a very serious 
thing is marriage, particular when it’s between peo- 
ple of their station.” 


COULEUR BE ROSE. 


213 


“I thonglit you said it was serious for every- 
body.” 

“ So it is,” the cook retorted. “ It is serious for 
everybody, to themselves if not to others ; but it’s 
more than serious for tliese two, it’s serious to every- 
body concerned. Don’t you get worrying yourself 
about Miss Constable’s looks, Matthew, it’s likely 
enough that she’ll look a deal worse before the 
wedding day is over.” 

“ She can’t do that,” said Matthew, ‘‘ she’s looked 
as if ’er ’eart was breaking times out of number.” 

‘‘Well, I dare say she ’as ; but she never looks as 
if ’er ’eart was breaking when his lordship’s about.” 

“ Why, how do you know, Mrs. Fincher ? ” 

“My kitchen winders,” returned Mrs. Fincher, 
“ don’t look over the front drive for nothing. I 
know when people come ’ere and see ’em, they say 
— ‘ What’s them winders ? ’ ‘ Oh,’ they say, ‘ the 

kitchens, and they looks down the front drive. 
Well, that’s queer!’ I dare say it is queer,” she 
continued, “ most people shoves kitchens away in 
the back and gives ’em nothing but a court-yard to 
look on to ; but them as built Faburn didn’t do that, 
and, as I say, my kitchen winders don’t look over 
the front drive for nothing. There’s no ’eart-break 
about Miss Constable when she’s driving the Bishop 
up the avenue in that little cart of hers ; her ’eart 
breaks always when the Bishop is not to the 


214 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


front, and, I take it, that’s the greatest compliment 
a young lady can pay to the gentleman she’s going 
to be married to.” 

“ W ell, I sincerely ’ope it is,” said Matthew, 
“ and this morning she’s as bloomin’ as a rose.” 

“I’m ’eartily glad to ’ear it,” said Mrs. Fincher; 
“ not that I ever believed, Matthew, that she was 
anything else.” 

Before twelve o’clock the Bishop made his ap- 
pearance, and oh, how radiant he was ! 

“ I’ve seen the last of my guests off,” he said to 
Cecil, “ and I have nothing to do all day. What 
shall we do with ourselves ? ” 

“ Well, first of all ” began Cecil. 

“ First of all,” interrupted the Bishop, “ I must 
thank you with all my heart and soul, dearest, for 
sending me that little note last night ; it has made a 
new man of me. And now,” he said, holding her 
close to him and looking fondly down on her, “ we 
have got a whole long precious summer day before 
us. What shall we do with it ? ” 

“We will spend part of it,” said Cecil, “in here ; 
and we will spend another part of it in the gardens ; 
and we will spend another part of it down by the 
river ; and we will dine together quietly and soberly, 
as though we had been married for ten years. By 
the bye,” she added, “ I am going up to London to- 
morrow.” 


COULETTR DE ROSE. 


215 


To London — why ? ” 

“Oh, well, you see Father is there, and was very 
anxious that I should go with him in the first 
instance. And I think I had better go up for a few 
days.” 

“ Oh, yes, of course, if you think so. For any- 
thing special ? ” 

“Well, you see, June is getting on and I have 
not ordered any of my things yet ; and of course I 
cannot possibly be married without clothes and 
things of that kind.” 

“ N’o, no, of course not. Why, my dearest, I 
have scarcely begun to realize yet that onr marriage 
is really within measurable distance. You have 
kept me so long on tenter-hooks, that I didn’t know, 
I could not be quite sure whether you might not fail 
me, after all.” 

“ Oh,” she cried, with deep reproach, “ you knew, 
you must have known that I should notfail you. 
I might have failed myself, but that would have 
been a very different thing.” 

“I don’t know so much about that,” said the 
Bishop. “I don’t believe that the cause would 
have made any difference to the end. However, 
these dark days are all over now, and I can afford to 
forget the days of waiting.” 


CHAPTER XYI. 


FACE TO FACE WITH THE TRUTH. 


“ All worldly joys do quickly fade, 

Nor give to any full content ; 

The wisest is who trusts them least, 

Who trust them most shall most repent.” 

— Chaucer. 


‘*A fire devoureth before them ; and behind them a plain 
burneth.” 


—Joel, 


The following day, Miss Constable went oif to town 
with her maid, Louise. Her father met her at the 
terminus and, after putting Louise and the luggage 
into a cab, carried his daughter off in a hansom to 
liis hotel. 

“ And what made you take this freak into your 
head, Madam ? ” he asked, teasingly. 

“ I thought I had better come up, dear,” she re- 
plied. 

“Well, that was what I told you, only you didn’t 
seem to see the wisdom of my remarks. How is 
his lordship ? ” 


FACE TO FACE WITH THE TRUTH. 217 

‘‘ Oh, his lordship is blooming,” answered Cecil, 
blushing a fine rosy red. “ I believe that he too is 
coining up to-morrow.” 

“Eeally? Well, I haven’t any objection. But 
what made you change your mind ? ” 

“ You see,” answered Cecil, “ I suddenly woke up 
to the fact that I had not ordered any things, and, 
of course, I can’t be married without clothes and 
so on.” 

“ 170 , I should imagine not, but you have really 
seemed so indifferent on the subject, that I began 
to think you might put your wedding off again.” 

“ !N^ot any more,” said Cecil, with a happy little 
smile. 

Sir Edward turned and looked at her. 

“ You look much better than you did, child,” he 
said, as if he had only just discovered how gay and 
blooming she seemed. 

“ Oh, yes, dear, much better than I was. In fact 
I am all right and as happy as possible.” 

“ And the Bishop is coming up to-morrow ? ” 

“ Yes, I think so — for a few days.” 

And surely enough, on the following afternoon, 
the Bishop of Blankhampton made his appearance 
at the Burlington, where Sir Edward and his 
daughter were staying. And during the next four 
or five days, Cecil enjoyed life in truly royal 
fashion. Every day they took a turn in the Park, 


218 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


sometimes twice; and everybody asked of their 
iieiglibors, who was the handsome Bishop and the 
pretty, radiant-looking girl. And then quite a crop 
of little paragraphs began to appear in the society 
papers, somewhat after this style — “ And among 
others, we saw the splendid-looking Bishop of 
Blankhampton — the handsomest Bishop on the 
bench — with his charming fiancee, Miss Constable, 
the great Blankshire heiress.” 

They were obliged to show themselves, too, at a 
good many large social functions ; and one morning 
he took her down to see his old parish and church. 

Then, of stern necessity, the Bishop bade fare- 
well to his sweetheart and the metropolis, and went 
back to his engagements in Blankhampton, while 
Cecil spent another week, going from shop to shop, 
from dressmaker to tailor, from tailor to milliner, 
from milliner to bootmaker, and so on, right 
through the whole gamut of tradespeople necessary 
to the composition of a harmonious trousseau. 

As soon as they returned to Baburn, the invita- 
tions to the wedding were sent out, giving a full 
month’s notice. The wedding day was fixed for 
the 30th of July ; and following right on the heels 
of the answers to the cards of invitation, wedding 
presents began to pour in upon the bride-elect. 
They made a goodly show, for all sorts and con- 
ditions of things came from all sorts and conditions 


FACE TO FACE WITH THE TRUTH, 219 

of people. A complete set of turquoises and dia- 
monds from the Bishop, together with a triple 
string of pearls of great beauty and value ; a huge 
silver bowl from the Netherby tenantry ; a complete 
toilette service of silver from the Baburn people ; a 
pair of silver candelabra from the clergy, and a 
diamond bracelet from the ladies of the diocese. 
From private persons they literally poured in by 
hundreds, and Cecil was kept very hard at work in- 
deed, acknowledging them with proper and suitable 
expressions of gratitude and thanks. 

It was a dreadfully busy time, and in the midst of 
it Miss Constable had to go up to town again for 
three days, when she stood for hours in dress- 
makers’ fitting-rooms, while her various garments 
were tried on. 

At this time, the Bishop was not preaching quite 
so much as he had been doing. He had a good 
many fixtures, of course — what Bishop in full work 
has not ? A new organ here, a restoration there, a 
sermon for this charity, or an address for that insti- 
tution ; and whenever it was possible, Cecil accom- 
panied him or, at least, was present when he was 
likely either to speak or preach. When one is very 
much occupied, a fortnight is soon gone. Two 
weeks of Cecil Constable’s last month of maiden- 
hood had slipped by, and everything seemed to 
be going as well and as merrily with her as the 


220 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


proverbial marriage bell. It happened, however, 
when the third week of the month was just begin- 
ning, that she drove some five miles one evening, to 
hear the Bishop preach at the church of the oldest 
clergyman in the diocese. 

Now, the Bishop was blessed with unusually keen 
eyesight, and from his place within the altar- rails, 
he could plainly see Cecil, whenever he lifted his 
eyes. She was, indeed, a very noticeable figure in 
the church, which was not a very large one, foi- she 
was wearing a light-grey tweed dress, with a cotton 
shirt, and a neat sailor hat bound with a white 
ribbon. Not a detail of her dress or face escaped 
the Bishop. He could see the white fire of the 
diamonds on. her left hand, and equally w'ell the 
azure of the turquoises beside them ; he could hear 
every note of her charming voice, and felt indeed 
almost as if she were sitting beside him. Then 
when the time for the sermon came, he went, a 
grand and dignified figure, in his majestic robes, up 
into the pulpit. Theffe was only one thing about 
Cecil that evening, which he did not realize, and 
that was the throb of pride with which she saw 
him in the old carved pulpit, with the soft light of 
a many-branched candelabra falling down upon his 
smooth fair head and clean-cut earnest face — prob- 
ably a handsomer and more personable man than 
had ever filled it before. 


FACE TO FACE WITH THE TRUTH. 221 


He took for his text, “ For what is a man prof- 
ited, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his 
own soul ? or what shall a man give in exchange for 
his soul ? ” Asa sermon it was discreet, calm, tem- 
perate, practical, and eminently eloquent, directed 
mostly at the class which forces up prices in hard 
times, for the benefit of trade. A sermon to be dis- 
tinctly uriderstanded of the people, for the Bishop 
gave one instance after another of trade facts, 
which had come under his own personal knowledge 
while the vicar of a busy London parish. Instances 
of great fish-dealers who deliberately turned whole 
cargoes of fish into the Thames, because prices had 
run down, rather than let the starving poor benefit 
by the glut in the market, which had caused the 
fall in prices. Instances of an iniquitous thing 
called a “ corner,” which he explained to wondering 
bucolic ears, wdth the lucidity which was one of his 
greatest charms. He ended his sermon by saying, 
“ There is no one of us here present to-night, who has 
not at some time or other in his life, had something 
offered to him distinctly in exchange for his soul. 
The outside world may not know it, our own special 
world may never know whether we take it or leave 
it ; our fellow men and women may never know 
that which we well know ourselves, or which we 
ought to know and would know, were not our souls 
steeped in desire or indolence ; they may never sus- 


222 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


pect we have acquired certain things at the cost of 
our own souls. As for ourselves, if we do know, 
we take a certain course at our own risk and the 
blame is wholly and solely our own. If we are so 
blinded by our desires or by the world, as not to be 
aware that this dire calamity has fallen upon us, we 
are to be pitied, but we shall not be excused ; for we 
shall surely awake sooner or later to the awful 
knowledge that, though we may indeed have gained 
the whole world, yet we have gained it in exchange 
for our own soul ; and what shall it profit man or 
woman to have acquired myriads of worlds at such 
a cost ? ” 

I can scarcely describe by what instinct the 
Bishop at this point looked at Cecil, but he saw to 
his horror that the look which he had first noticed 
upon her face in the Parish Choir had come back 
again. His voice died away to silence and the 
people rose to their feet, as he spoke the concluding 
sentence giving glory to God. The offertory took 
some little time, and the Bishop noticed that Cecil 
did not join in the hymn which was sung mean- 
while. Then after he had pronounced the Bless- 
ing, the whole church was hushed in silence for a 
moment, before the organist struck up the notes of 
a recessional hymn, and the choir and clergy slow- 
ly filed down the church and out of sight. The 
Bishop painfully aware, as he passed Cecil Con- 


FACE TO FACE WITH THE TRUTH. 223 


stable’s seat, that she was still kneeling with her face 
hidden on her arms. 

She liad promised to drive back with him, hav- 
ing sent her own cart home, without putting up. 
There are always certain small courtesies to be got 
through, before a Bishop can leave a church at 
wluch he has been preaching, when the service 
is over, and when the Bishop of Blankhampton 
reached the church -yard gate, accompanied by 
the Yicar, his victoria with its fidgety chestnut 
horses was waiting, but there was no sign of Cecil. 

“ Has Miss Constable come out of the church ? ” 
he asked of the footman. 

“ Hot yet, my lord,” the man replied. 

“ Oh, but you saw everybody come out ? ” 

“ I did, my loi'd.” 

He turned to the Yicar. 

“I think she must be looking at the church. Ex- 
cuse me a moment, I will go back and fetch her.” 

He went back into the church and went softly up 
the aisle. Cecil had not moved, but was still kneel- 
ing with her head bent upon her arms, exactly as 
she had been when the Bishop had passed her. He 
laid his hand gently on her shoulder. 

“ Come,” he said, “ it is time to go home.” 

She raised her head with a start. He saw that 
she was very pale and that her eyes had a strange 
far-away look in them. 


224 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOR 


‘‘ I am ready,” she replied, then gathered together 
her gloves and books and a warm coat which she 
had brought to wear for the drive home. 

“ You will put this on ? ” said the Bishop. 

“ Yes.” 

He took it from her and held it so that she could 
easily slip her arms into it. 

“ I believe you are very tired,” he said, trying to 
speak in his usual voice. 

‘‘A little,” she admitted. 

“1 am afraid you are not very well,” said the 
Rector, when the Bishop and Cecil reached the gate. 

I am a little tired, that is all,” she replied. 
“ Oh, no, not anything, thanks, not anything ; we 
shall be home in little more than half an hour.” 

She got into the carriage with a decision which 
quite prevented any acceptance on the Bishop’s 
part of the good Rector’s hospitality ; so he had 
little or no choice to do other than to bid his host 
good-night, and seat himself beside her. Then, with 
a mutual uplifting of hats, a bow and something 
meant to be a smile from Cecil, the Bishop gave the 
signal to the coachman and they started for home. 
And Cecil never said a word. Twice the Bishop 
looked at her, but she was looking blankly at noth- 
ing, her thoughts evidently very far away. At last 
he turned himself a little in his seat, and under 
cover of the light rug, took hold of her hand. 


FACE TO FACE WITH THE TRUTH 225 

Dearest,” he said, gently, ‘‘ what is it ? ” 

She turned and looked at him, a look of such dire 
anguish that his very soul seemed to turn sick with- 
in him. 

“ What is it ? ” he repeated. “ You are not well 
— you feel faint ? ” 

“No,” she answered, “I feel stunned.” 

“ But why, my dearest, what has happened ? 
You were quite like yourself this afternoon ; what 
can have happened between then and now to make 
you look like this ? ” 

“ Everything has happened,” she answered, un- 
der her breath, “ everything. Oh, why did you 
preach that sermon ? It seemed, all in a moment, 
to lay my very soul bare, I never I’eally knew my- 
self until to-night. And yet, you were right to 
preach it — you were right, it was your duty. No, 
it was something more than that, it was Providence 
that stepped in to save you.” 

“ To save me ! ” he echoed. “ Why, what non- 
sense are you saying ? To save me from what ? ” 

“ What shall it profit a man to gain one thing,” 
she answered, “ in exchange for his soul ? ” 

“ My dear, you are talking wildly,” he managed 
to say, with an assumption of calmness which he 
was very far from feeling. It was, however, only 
the calmness of coming despair. His strong face 
blanched, and an involuntary sliudder ran through 
15 


226 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


his broad frame. Cecil — dearest — you cannot 
mean tliat anything — any words of mine to-night, 
could make you fail me now, at the last moment ? 
It is impossible.” 

“ Do you think it is impossible ? ” she said, breath- 
lessly. “ I do not know — I feel as if nothing can 
be impossible. Why did you preach that sermon — 

‘ In exchange for his soul.’ Am I to give myself 
in exchange for your soul ? ” 

“ But you are not doing so ; you are talking 
something ver}^ like nonsense. There is no ques- 
tion of your taking my soul. I give you myself, 
my life, my heart, my name — but my soul — why, 
there can be no question of my giving you that.’’ 

“ No, not of your giving it to me, but of your 
giving it for me.” 

“No more than any other man does who marries 
the woman he loves,” he answered, soothingly. 
“ My dear, you are tired, you are over-wrought. 
These ceremonials are too much for your sensitive 
nature, by and bye you will have got used to them. 
The excitement of all at once giving deep thought 
— anxious thought, terribly anxious thought, to a 
subject about wliich you had not before troubled 
yourself, has been too much for you. Be advised 
by me, try to live during the next fortnight with- 
out thinking — without thinking at all ! ” 

“ You seriously advise me to do that ? ” 


FACE TO FACE WITH THE TRUTH. 227 

“ I do seriously ; Ido earnestly ; I do cold- 
bloodedly, if you will forgive the expression. I 
would so advise you, if you were nothing to me, 
and 1 were nothing to the man you were going to 
marry.” 

“I will think about it,” she said. ‘‘Just now, I 
feel as if my very heart had been torn out of my 
body. Up to now, I have thought only of myself 
and my own feelings; of my own life in the future; 
but to-night you have made me think of yours.” 

It is only fair to admit that the Bishop was but 
human. At that moment he could cheerfully have 
bitten his tongue out, for having preached a sermon 
which would arouse any such feelings in her mind. 

“ Do be guided by me in this, dearest,” he said, 
gently, and holding her hand very tightly. “You 
are naturally nervous, and over-wrought, and un- 
strung. You are not fit, at present, to take the 
decision of these great questions upon yourself. 
Afterward, afterward, after ^ the thirtieth, when 
there is not so much happiness hanging upon your 
convictions — I mean earthly happiness, of course — 
you will be able to look upon these questions in an 
unbiassed light. As it is now, you are biassed to 
the last extent — it is imjpossihle for you to take a 
fair view of the matter.” 

“ But you are biassed, too,” she said, quickly. 

“ Hot at all,” he answered. “My belief remains 


228 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


precisely what it always lias been. I see a little 
more need of patience, of charity, of making allow- 
ances for the doubts, cares, and weaknesses of 
others, than perhaps I did before ; but my belief is 
not altered one hair’s breadth — nothing could alter 
it. I believe what I have always believed, what I 
believe to be right ; what I believe to be the best 
finger-post that we can find in this world to guide 
us into and make us fit for a better one. After all, 
what is religion, what is faith ? Only the working 
out of a perfectly reasonable, a perfectly simple, 
and a perfectly easy code of life. Our religion 
was not given to us to be a sort of bogie, following 
us round and making us miserable at every turn. 
On the contrary, it was intended to make us hap- 
pier here in this world, it was intended to make the 
world and poor human nature better and brighter 
and happier ; not to fill our lives with sorrow and 
sadness, and mortification.” 

Yes, I know. I will think about it — I will try 
to do as you tell me.” 

‘‘ You want to do as I tell you, I hope ? ” he said, 
tenderly. 

‘‘Oh, 3^es, you must know that. I want to do 
what is right, and I thought my way was quite 
clear ; but to-night the clouds have all come back 
again, and I feel that there is a lion in the way. 
I am very wretched, Archie.” 


FACE TO FACE WITH THE TRUTH. 229 

“ My dearest, I know you are. But here we are, 
at Raburn. Don’t look like that ; people will think 
we have been quarrelling, you and I, and, although 
I care as little as most men for outward appear- 
ances, I should not like your father’s people to 
imagine for one moment that I had been quarrel- 
ling with and ill-using you.” 

“ They will never think that you have done any- 
thing that was unkind to me,” she said, gravely. 
‘‘ Nobody could ever believe but that you were the 
best and kindest and dearest of men.” 

“ And yet you don’t trust me,” he put in. 

“ Oh, yes, I do ; but you are too generous — it is 
your worst fault But I trust you implicitly.” 

“ Not to the extent of letting me decide an im- 
portant question for you.” 

“Because,” she answered, “I am afraid that 
you might decide it more in favor of me than 
of yourself. You are strong, but the strongest 
men are weak sometimes, and if it is given to 
me to be stronger than you, I must do what 
I believe to be the right. That is reason, is it 
not ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said the Bishop. “ No, I can’t 
see that it is. It is a one-sided piece of reasoning 
altogether. At all events, Cecil, there is one thing 
which, right or wrong, conviction or no conviction, 
you cannot do.” 


230 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


‘‘And that?” she asked, startled a little by his 
tone. 

“You cannot break our enir^gement with honor,” 
he answered, not looking at her but straight away 
through the gathering dusk. 

Ill another moment they were sweeping along 
the avenue at Kahurn, and tlien the horses drew 
up, with much prancing and fuss, at the great 
entrance door. 


CHAPTER XYIL 


THE PIECES don’t FIT ! 

“ Not in the clamor of the crowded street, 

Not in the shouted plaudits of the crowd, 

But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.” 

—Longfellow. 

“ In the valley of decision.” 

—JobI, 

When the Bishop parted with Cecil Constable 
that evening, it was on the understanding that he 
should go out to Raburn the following afternoon, 
not later than five o’clock. He forebore from 
continuing the conversation which had passed be- 
tween them during their drive home, and on pair- 
ing had only begged her to trust implicitly in the 
future — to trust him. Heedless to say, the girl 
passed a wretched night, . and when the Bishop 
entered her little sitting-room the following after- 
noon he realized, in a moment, that things had 
gone hardly with her. 

“ My dearest,” he cried, ‘‘ you are killing yourself 
' — you are very ill.” 


232 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


“Yes, I do feel desperately ill,” she answered, 
“ sick in body and sick in mind. Oli, Archie, I am 
so miserable, I am so wretched ! ’’ 

He drew her on to the sofa and held her hands 
fast in his. 

“Tell me all about it,” he said, in soothing 
tones. “You look as if you had been awake all 
night.” 

“ I have not been to bed at all,” she said, wearily. 

“Oh, my dear,” he cried, with the deepest re- 
proach, “ why won’t you trust me in this matter — 
why won’t you believe that I know what is best for 
you? I thought we had put away all these doubts 
of yours, and that when you sent me that dear little 
letter your mind was at rest.” 

“ On those .points, yes,” she admitted. “ On all 
the points that you and I talked .over I realized 
that I had perhaps thought more of the letter 
than of the spirit.” 

“ Then what is troubling your mind now ? ” he 
asked, gently. 

“Everything, Archie, everything. If it were 
only such questions as you and I talked over be- 
fore, I would admit — cheerfully admit — that you 
were perfectly right in everything 3"ou have said. 
Then I thought that those were the important 
things, but now I know that there is only one thing 
for me to do” — speaking painfully, as if she were 


THE PIECES DON^T FIT! 


233 


dragging the words np from her unwilling heart — 
“ with honor ” 

“ And that ? ” asked the Bishop. 

‘‘ Is to tell you that I cannot marry jmu. No ” — 
putting up her hand to stop him from speaking. 
“It is no use your trying to persuade me — I have 
made up my mind. It will break my heart, and I 
am afraid it will break yours — and everybody will 
talk — oh, how they will talk — and I shall have to 
send all the horrid wedding presents back, and ex- 
plain to people that it is going to be no wedding — 
and — and — I think it will kill me.” 

“You are not going to break faith with me?” 
said the Bishop, in a very cold voice. 

“ Yes — I must. You said last night, that I could 
not do so with honor. Under ordinary circum- 
stances, of course I could not. Oh, Archie, believe 
me, I would sooner put my hand into a living fire 
than have to tell you, under ordinary circum- 
stances, what — I — I have got to tell you to-day. It 
is not of my own will — you know that it is not — 
I don’t want to break with you. Oh, you know — 
you cannot have any doubt that I love you with my 
whole heart — that I am distracted — heartbroken — • 
forlorn and wretched at the very idea of parting 
from you ; but I have a duty to you and to your 
position. I cannot marry you. It would be like 
selling your soul. For my own, it would not 


234 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


matter — I don’t believe that I have a soul to sell, 
hut you do. And if you are right, and all that 
you believe in, and I knew and you knew that I 
had bargained it away, I should never know peace 
again and there could be no real love between us. 
When you realized what you had done, when you 
came to your senses, you would no longer love me. 
If you were too good to hate me, you would look 
upon me as the Christ, that you believe in, looked 
upon the Devil when he tempted him.” 

‘‘ What do you mean 'i ” he cried. 

‘‘ Mean — oh, isn’t it clear enough ? Haven’t I 
made it plain enough ? Will you force me to say 
literally — in English — what you must know — what 
you must have realized already? Archie, I love 
you — you know it — you cannot need any more 
words of mine to convince you of that ; but I have 
been forced, during the last few hours, to admit to 
myself that I am utterly without a religious belief 
of any kind. I believe in nothing — I accept noth- 
ing of what is your life. I have been up all night 
and I have read the whole of the four Gospels over 
several times ; but I can’t reconcile them to my 
reason. The pieces don’t fit, Archie. I hate to say 
it, because I know that it hurts you to hear it — but 
I don’t believe a word of it. So how could I, giv- 
ing little or no credence to the past, regarding it 
all as a mere fable, having no reverence for the 


THE PIECES DON'T FIT! 


235 


religion of the present, and without any belief or 
hope ill a world to come, marry a man in your posi- 
tion ? Still more to the point, how could you, in 
your position, marry a woman of my way of think- 
ing?” 

“ But this is new,” exclaimed the Bishop ; “you 
never gave me a hint of this before.” 

“ I scarcely admitted it even to myself. It was 
not until last night, when you put that awful 
thought into my mind, that you were gaining me in 
exchange for yoiir soul, that I realized what a terrible 
thing was about to happen. Don’t try to persuade 
me otherwise. You said that last night about 
honor, but I feel that no woman of honor could 
have done other than I have done. Don’t try to 
persuade me to go straight on and trust to time to 
put everything right. I should only,” she con- 
tinued, not giving him time to speak, “I should 
only despise you, if you were weak enough to run 
such a risk.” 

“ I am not going to ask you to run it,” said the 
Bishop, in a dull, hard voice. 

She looked at him piteously, but for the first 
time, there was no answer in his eyes. 

He got up and walked to the window, where he 
stood looking out over the lovely summer landscape, 
with eyes so full of pain that they saw nothing, with 
a brain all in a whirl of misery, and a heart like a 


236 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


lump of lead. The girl did not dare to speak. She 
sat still, just as he had released her from his strong 
and tender grasp — a girl did I say, no, no longer a 
girl, but a sorrowful, heart-stricken woman, with a 
white, drawn face, and eyes of living anguish, in 
which there was no sign of tears. She longed to go 
to him, not as an equal, not to put her arms about 
his neck as she had been used to do ; but to creep 
to his feet, as an outcast, a leper, who would fain 
kiss even the ground upon which they trod. But 
she dared not. She felt that she had by her own 
act, if not bj^ her own will, put herself completely 
away from him forever. For the first time in her 
life, she was afraid of him, the more afraid because 
he had said so little, because he had not reproached 
her, because he had not in any way attempted to 
refute her words or to overcome her scruples. No, 
that was the hardest blow of all — he had accepted 
her fiat, and she felt that she had put her hand to 
a plough, from which there could be no drawing 
back during all the rest of her life. 

It seemed to her that he stood for hours looking 

o 

out over the gardens and wide-spread lands of 
Raburn, but, in reality, it was only for some ten 
minutes that the silence lasted between them. She 
did not know — how could she know — that while he 
stood there he was only struggling for mastery over 
himself, struggling to command himself, so that he 


THE PIECES DON'T FIT I 


237 


should not break down in her presence. At last, 
however, he turned toward her again, going back to 
the great bear-skin before the hearth, and rested 
his elbow on the wide mantel -shelf, so that he could 
partly shade his eyes with his hand. 

“ You will forgive me,” he said, in a very un- 
steady voice, “ if I go away. It is useless, in the 
face of what you have told me, to prolong the agony 
of this discussion. It is useless for me to protest to 
you the depth of the blow which has fallen upon 
me to-day. I have only one thing to ask — that you 
will make what explanation you like to your father, 
and that you will not pain me by sending back to 
me anything that I have given you. Perhaps, after 
a time, when I have got over this, you will let me 
see you again. For the rest, I will write to you. I 
must go now.” 

He did not attempt to take formal leave of her, 
but went out of the room without daring to look at 
her again. 

She had not moved during the time that he stood 
at the window or while he was speaking ; but when 
she realized that he was going, going forever, she 
stretched her despairing arms toward him and 
opened her. mouth as if to beg him to stay. Then 
a realization of what she had done, of what had hap- 
pened, of the irrevocable barrier that had risen up 
between them, came upon her like a flash of light- 


238 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


ning ; the imploring words died upon her lips, her 
trembling hands fell back upon her knees, the door 
closed, and he was gone. 

The coachman had, in accordance with his usual 
custom, put up his horses, and great was the esti- 
mable Matthew’s surprise, when, on answering the 
hall-bell, he found the Bishop standing there alone. 

‘‘Will you order my carriage, please,” he said. 

It was the first time since his engagement to Miss 
Constable, that the Bishop had ever spoken to the 
valued old servant of the house, without the pleasant 
and friendly use of his name. In a moment, Mat- 
thew realized that something dreadful had hap- 
pened. He answered, “ Certainly, my lord,” and 
bustled away to apprise the Bishop’s coachman that 
his master wanted the carriage round at once. 

“Why — what’s up?” asked the episcopal Jehu. 

“ I don’t know what’s up,” replied Matthew, “ but 
whatever it is, it’s something serious. His lordship 
is as white as a ghost, and he spoke like a man in a 
dream.” 

But a very few minutes passed before the carriage 
came round. The discreet Matthew returned to the 
hall at the same moment and ushered the Bishop 
out, as if he were a total stranger and this his first 
call on the lady of the house. 

“ Home, my lord ? ” asked the footman. 

“ The Palace — ^yes,” answered the Bishop. 


THE PIECES DON'T FIT/ 


239 


He never looked np, lie was too stunned to give 
Matthew his usual kindly smile and gesture of fare- 
well, he simply sat in the carriage like a man of 
stone, keeping himself under control till he could 
get into some friendly shelter, from the same in- 
stinct that the wounded deer speeds until it reaches 
covert. 

Just as he turned into the high road, he met Lady 
Vivian evidently driving up to the house, and to that 
lady’s no small surprise and dismay, he passed her 
without recognition. 

“ That was the Bishop,” she said to her companion, 
a lady, who was staying at Ingleby. 

“ Really — well he doesn’t look to me like a man 
who is going to be married next week,” said her 
friend. “ Is he short-sighted ? ” 

“ Oh, no, not at all. But did you notice that he 
never looked at me ? ” 

“ He looked more like a man going to be hanged, 
than one going to be married,” declared the other. 

“ I thought so too,” said Lady Vivian, with con- 
viction ; “ however, we shall see what Cecil says.” 

But Matthew blandly informed them that Miss 
Constable was not at home. 

‘‘ Is she in the town ? ” 

“ I believe not, my lady,” said Matthew, urbanely. 

Miss Constable did not tell me whether she was 
going into Blankhampton or not.” 


240 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


“ Oh, I hope she is well ? ” 

“ Yes, my lady. Miss Constable is quite well,” 
Matthew replied. 

‘‘ I met the Bishop at the end of the avenue,” said 
Lady Yivian. 

“ His lordship has just been here, my lady,” Mat- 
thew replied. 

“I see. Well, give my love to Miss Constable.” 

“ Certainly, my lady.” 

How, as a matter of fact, Matthew had intuitively 
grasped the fact that something terrible had hap- 
pened, and bearing possible visitors in view, he made 
bold enough to seek his young mistress out and as- 
certain her views thereupon. The usual afternoon 
tea being ready, he carried it into the boudoir and 
arranged it before her. 

“Are you at home to visitors, ma’am ? ” he asked. 

Cecil looked up. 

“Ho — no, Matthew, not to anybody.” 

“ Yery good, ma’am.” 

“ Mrs. Fincher,” said Matthew, a few minutes 
later, “ I don’t believe there’ll be an}^ wedding on 
the 30th inst.” 

“ What ! ” she cried. 

“Mark my words, Mrs. Fincher, there’ll be no 
wedding. H’m — there’s visitors already,” and 
Matthew hurried out that he might, as he after- 
ward put it, get rid of Lady Yivian. 


THE PIECES DON'T FIT! 


24:1 


Meantime, the Bishop’s horses carried him swiftly 
along the smooth country roads, through the town 
and back to the great echoing Palace. He looked 
neither to right nor to left, indeed he never raised 
his eyes from his own feet. He was quite uncon- 
scious that between Baburn and the town he met 
Sir Edward Constable driving himself in a high 
dogcart, or that, in the streets of Blankhampton, he 
passed many other people who knew him. He saw 
nobody. As soon as he reached the Palace, he gave 
orders to the butler, “ I am at home to no one,” 
and went into his study, shutting the door after him 
arid turning the key in the lock. And there he 
stayed for hours, stricken down as only the strong 
can be, battling hard with the terrible anguish 
which had that day eaten into his very soul. When 
it was nearly eight o’clock, he rang the bell. 

Don’t prepare dinner for me to-night,” he said, 
‘‘ I am too busy to eat it. Tell cook to send me up 
a cup of strong tea at once.” 

The man bowed and retired. The Bishop’s study 
always looked busy, the tables were always littered 
with papers, so that the excuse should have seemed 
a good one. But the servant was not to be de- 
ceived. 

‘‘ Something ’orrid ’as ’appened to my lord,” he 
remarked to the dignified butler, who watched over 
the Bishop’s daily comfort. “ ’E ain’t going to ’ave 
16 


242 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


any dinner. That’s bad. ’E’s too busy to eat it. 
I’ve never known ’im too busy to eat ’is dinner be- 
fore. I wonder what’s up ? ” 

“ Oh, what should be up ? ” replied his superior, 
with infinite scorn ; ‘‘ you always were given to 
fancying things, Wilson. It’s very foolish of you : 
as if his lordship’s a man to go without his dinner 
for a mere fad.” 

Meanwhile, Cecil Constable had with feverish 
thirst drank a cup of tea, but had not touched the 
contents of the pretty three-cornered basket which 
Matthew had brought with it. And then she 
slipped back among the cushions again, as if all the 
vitality and strength had been taken out of her dur- 
ing the past hour. It was not very long before Sir 
Edward, cheery and a little fussy, bustled into the 
room. 

“ I met the Bishop,” he told her, “ and the man 
was so wrapped up in a brown study that he never 
even saw me. Why — what’s the matter— what has 
happened ? ” 

Cecil tried to speak but the words choked her. 

‘‘ He has been here,” she managed to say, at last. 

“ Been here ? Well, there’s nothing wonderful in 
that ; of course he has been here, I met him — where 
else should he have been ? But — ” in a different 
tone, ‘‘ has anything happened ? ” 

“ Fes,” she replied, scarcely above a whisper. 


THE PIECES DON'T FIT! 


243 


“ Wliat is it ? Don’t beat about the bush — tell 
me what is the matter.” 

“ I don’t know how to tell you.” 

Anything between you and the Bishop ? ” 

“ Everything,” she answered. 

“ But what do you mean by everything ? ” 

“ It’s all over,” said Cecil with difficulty. 

“ Your marriage ? ” 

Yes.” 

“ Do 3 ^ou mean to say that your engagement is 
broken off — that you are not goinsj to be married on 
the 30th ? ” 

“ Yes, that is what I mean.” 

“ But why ? ” 

“ I cannot tell you.” 

“ I^onsense — you must tell me.” 

“ I cannot tell you,” she repeated. ‘‘ Oh,” in a 
wailing voice, “ don’t ask me why. It is all over — 
there is going to be no wedding at all — he will 
never come here again. That’s enough, isn’t it ? 
What do the details matter?” 

“But they do matter,” Sir Edward persisted. “ I 
have a right to know — I must know.” 

“ I cannot tell you. Oh, Father, cannot you see 
that it is killing me to talk about it ? Don’t, for 
pity’s sake, ask me any more questions. Help me 
to get through the next horrid week, to tell people 
that I am not going to be married, that they needn’t 


244: 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


send me any more wedding presents, that they can 
take back those they have sent', and give them to 
somebody else ; that there won’t be any wedding on 
the 30th — more likely a funeral.” 

Sir Edward fairly fumed. 

This is all very mysterious, Cecil,” he said 
abruptly. ‘‘ And if you were an ordinary young 
lady, this sort of thing might pass muster ; but you 
are not an ordinary young lady, you are a very im- 
portant person indeed, and Miss Constable of Ka- 
burn cannot be taken up and put down in this way. 
If you won’t give me an explanation, 1 must demand 
one from the Bishop himself.” 

“ I would rather not give you any explanation,” 
she replied. “ It is impossible for our marriage to 
take place and that ought to be enough, even for 
you.” 

“ What am I to say to people who ask about it ? ” 

“ ^Nothing,” said Cecil. “You need not say any- 
thing — it is enough for them that there will be no 
marriage. You might at least do this much for 
me.” 

“I must seek my explanation from the Bishop 
liimself,” he said vexedly, “ an explanation I must 
have ; and if you won’t give it me, I must get it 
from him.” 

“ I cannot give it to you. Look at me. Cannot 
you see that I am heart-broken ? Cannot you see 


THE PIECES DON^T FIT! 


245 


that I am too crushed aud wretched to talk it over 
and describe my agony ? I don’t think you are 
kind — I did not expect you to make me suffer like 
this, in the most cruel sorrow that I liave ever 
known. I did not expect it from you.” 

‘‘ But it’s so inexplicable,” he explained, his 
sympathy for her all blotted out by his annoyance 
and his surprise. “ Here are you, on the very eve of 
your marriage, with the invitations all sent out more 
than a fortnight ago, presents come in from the 
tenantry and from half of our friends, with your 
settlements arranged and drawn up and your clothes 
got ready. I come home, all unsuspecting and un- 
wittingly, and you simply cast a bombshell at me, 
that you are not going to be married at all. I don’t 
understand it. I don’t know what to say to 
people.” 

It cannot be necessary to say anything to people,” 
Cecil repeated. “ You have the invitation list and 
you will send out an intimation to everybody who 
has been asked that there will be no wedding. Ho- 
body could be so cruel as to come harassing me or 
you to know the reason why ? It is quite enough 
for the world that it is so.” 

But I am not the world,” Sir Edward persisted. 

‘‘ I know that you are not the world — but I know 
too that you are the one who might have some 
consideration for me.” 


246 


TEE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


“ It is consideration for you that makes me de- 
sirous of knowing everything,’’ said Sir Edward 
testily. ‘‘ For anything I know to the contrary, 
the Bishop may have jilted you.” 

Cecil broke into a dreary laugh. Sir Edward 
fumed on. 

“ And if he has done so, I warn you, and I warn 
him, that not even his cloth shall protect him.” 

She looked up, shaking her head. 

“He needs no cloth to protect him from any 
imputation that is disgraceful to him. Forgive me, 
if I go away and do not come down again to-night. 
I cannot, I simply cannot bear this discussion any 
longer, but I hope I may trust you to see the proper 
announcements given to the world. It is a thing 
that I cannot do for myself.” 

She went out of the room unsteadily, like one just 
recovering from severe illness, and when she had 
shut the door. Sir Edward realized that she did not 
mean to tell him anything of what had caused her 
broken engagement. 

“ I see nothing for it,” he muttered, “ but going 
over to the Palace and trying to get some informa- 
tion out of him — though he won’t tell me anything 
either.” 

There is, you know, a wide difference between an 
affair of that kind, a broken engagement and an 
abandoned marriage, when it is closely concerning 


THE PIECES DOWT FIT! 247 

yourself and when it only closely concerns some- 
body belonging to you. Sir Edward Constable was 
bewildered, puzzled, and intensely annoyed, but he 
did nothing out of the common course. He dressed 
for dinner and he sat down by himself to eat it ; and 
being a loquacious person and bound to relieve his 
mind by talking to somebody, he partially unbur- 
dened himself to the inestimable Matthew, who, be 
it remembered, had been over fifty years, man and 
boy, at Kaburn. 

“Miss Constable is not coming down to dinner, 
Matthew,” he said, when he entered the dining- 
room. “ You might tell Louise to take her up 
some tea and something of that kind presently. 
Don’t bother her with any dinner. By the by, send 
James out of the room, will you ? ” 

The discreet Matthew lifted his eyes and jerked 
his thumb at the door, as an indication to his 
subordinate that he might depart. 

“ I’m afraid. Sir Edward, something has happened 
this afternoon.” 

“ I can’t make it out, Matthew, I can’t make it 
out. There’s going to be no wedding.” 

“ I said so. Sir Edward,” said Matthew, “ I 
said so.” 

“ But why ? What happened this afternoon ? ” 
Sir Edward asked, holding his spoon poised above 
his soup-plate while he stared at Matthew. “ What 


248 


TEE SOUL OF TEE BISEOP. 


took place? I cannot get anything out of Miss 
Constable, excepting that she’s not going to be 
married on the 30th.’’ 

“ Well,” said Matthew, resting his arm on the back 
of his master’s chair and standing in the attitude 
that twenty years ago was considered the most 
correct one for the photographer’s art. ‘‘Well, Sir 
Edward, it was like this. The Bishop, he called here 
close on ’alf past four o’clock and I showed him into 
the boudore, and Simpson, he put his horses up — as 
usual. And just on the point of five, when 1 was 
going up, to carry the tea, the ’all-bell rang, and I 
went to see what was wanted, and his lordship was 
standing in the hall and he says to me, ‘Will you 
order my carriage, please ? ’ Now, generally. Sir 
Edward, his lordship says, like he did when he come 
in this afternoon, ‘Ah, Matthew, how are you?’ or, 
‘Will you order my carriage, Matthew?’ or some- 
thing pleasant and recognizing-like. But this after- 
noon, he never looked at me, but he just says, ‘Will 
you order my carriage, please ? ’ as if I’d been a 
hired waiter at somebody’s house that he’d never 
been to before, and didn’t mean to go to again. And 
of course, I said, ‘ Certainly, my lord,’ and I went 
and hurried Simpson up and the carriage came round 
and he got in. He never looked at me, but his face 
was like chalk and his hands were shaking, and I 
knew that there’d not be any wedding on the 30th 


THE PIECES DON^T FIT! 249 

— I said so. And bis footman said, ‘ Home, my 
lord?’ and lie said, ‘ The Palace — yes,’ and then he 
drove away, witliont turning his eyes and just as if 
he was made of stone. Well, then. Sir Edward, I 
went in and I carried the tea in to Miss Constable, 
and she was like death too. And I asked her if she 
would receive any other visitors and she said ‘ Ho, 
not anyone,’ and so, when Lady Yivian came, I 
told her Miss Constable was not at home.” 

“ How did the Bishop look when he came ? ” 

“ As usual. Sir Edward, as usual. ‘ Ah, Matthew,’ 
said he, ‘Miss Constable at home?’ just as pleasant 
and affable as usual.” 

“ I can’t make it out,” said Sir Edward, with what 
was almost a groan, “ I can’t make it out, anyhow. 
And Miss Constable won’t say anything, not a 
word. How’^ever, look here, tell William to get me 
out a dogcart, and one of the grooms can go with 
me.” 

“ Yery good. Sir Edward.” 

“As I said, Mrs. Pincher,” the estimable Matthew 
remarked five minutes later, “ there’s going to be no 
wedding on the 30th instant.” 

“ You don’t say so ! ” said Mrs. Pincher. 

“Miss Constable isn’t dining; Sir Edward, he 
can’t make anything out, and he’s ordered a dogcart 
to go over to the Palace to-night.” 

“ To-night, Matthew ? ” 


250 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


To-niglit, Mrs. Pinclier. I knew he added 
triumphantly, “ there are some things in this life 
that you can’t make any mistake about. And that 
kind of flare-up is one of ’em.” 


CHAPTER XYin. 


SOKE STRICKEN. 


True be it said, what man it sayd, 

That love with gall and honey doth abound, 

But if the one be with the other way’d, 

For every dram of honey therein found 
A pound of gall doth over it redound.” 

—Spenser. 


“ A talebearer revealeth secrets : but he that is of a faithful 
spirit concealeth the matter.” 

— Pi’overbs. 


Having finished dinner, Sir Edward lighted a 
cigarette and started for tlie Palace as soon as the 
dogcart had come around. 

“ Don’t forget to look after Miss Constable,” he 
said to Matthew, as they reached the door-step. 

will, Sir Edward, I will,” said Matthew 
sympathetically. 

It was tlien very little after nine o’clock. He 
reached the Palace in about half an hour and asked 
to see the Bishop. 

“ His Lordship is very much occupied, Sir 


252 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


Edward,” said the solemn butler confidentially, 
“ but if you will come this way. Sir, I have no doubt 
he will see you.” 

lie led the way into the dimly lighted drawing- 
room, turning up a couple of the many gas jets 
before he sought the Bishop. After a minute or 
two, he returned, saying that his lordship would see 
Sir Edward, if he would kindly step this way. 

The man led him to the Bishop’s study and 
ushered him into the room, closing the door behind 
him. The Bishop was standing by the large writing- 
desk, which stood in the centre of the room. 

“ I expected you. Sir Edward,” he said, holding 
out his hand. 

“Then I won’t apologize for coming,” said Sir 
Edward, in a guarded tone. “ It is of course natural 
that I should want an explanation of what has taken 
place between my daughter and you to-day.” 

“ And I am sorry that I cannot give you one,” 
said the Bishop steadily. He pointed to a huge easy 
chair set cornerwise to the desk, and sat down 
himself in his usual place, that is in the writing 
chair, where he had been sitting before. 

“ I think it is my due to have an explanation,” 
Sir Edward blurted out. 

“To a certain extent, yes,” the Bishop said. 
“ Miss — Constable — Cecil — has definitely broken off 
our engagement and done away with all idea of our 


SORE STRICKEN. 


253 


marriage, and I take it that there is nothing more 
to be said.” 

“ Then it is Cecil’s doing,” Sir Edward exclaimed. 

The Bishop looked up with a sudden light in his 
ejes. 

“ My dear Sir Edward, has it been in your mind, 
even for a moment, that I could have failed Ce- 
cil ? ” 

“ Well, so to speak, no ; but in the face of such a 
catastrophe, such an upheaval of everything, as was 
suddenly flung at me on my return home to-day, 
one thinks a thousand tilings that are both likely 
and unlikely. I met you this afternoon, just out- 
side Blankhainpton. I was on my way home — you 
never saw me. I thought that queer enough, and 
then when I got home Cecil told me the bare fact 
that the marriage would not take place. Now, it is 
almost the last moment, the invitations have been 
out a fortnight, the house is littered with wedding 
presents, my daughter has made every preparation, 
the settlements are all drawn up ; and then all at 
once everything is knocked on the head. And I am 
not even told the reason why.” 

“ The reason is,” said the Bishop, in a not very 
steady voice, ‘‘ that Cecil has definitely decided not 
to marry me.” 

“ But why ? That is what I want to know.” 

“ And that is what I cannot tell you,” said the 


254 


TEE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


Bishop. “If Cecil likes to tell yon, she is, of 
course, quite at liberty to do so. But the reason is 
hers, and I cannot give her away even to you — un- 
less she chooses to do so herself. That it is not my 
wish,” he went on with a great effort to keep calm, 
“ I think needs no words of mine to make you be- 
lieve. I don’t think I can possibly look like a man 
who has either broken his engagement to the woman 
of his choice, or like one that is glad that she has 
broken hers.” 

“ No,” said Sir Edward, “ I saw that when I 
came in here, and, for the matter of that, Matthew 
told me that you looked ” 

“ Oh, for God’s sake spare me ! ” cried the Bishop 
passionately. “ I know what I looked like, I know 
what I felt like, I know what I feel like now. But 
the marriage is out of the question, Sir Edward ; it 
is no use trying to patch this thing up, it is no use 
my howling about my feelings, it. is no use your 
being annoyed about what people will say ; they’ll 
talk — they’ll talk ; let ’em talk — the main fact re- 
mains the same ; there will be no marriage between 
your daughter and me on the thirtieth of this 
month.” 

“ I can’t make it out, I think I ought to be told 
everything. It is only my due and my right that I 
should be told what it all means. It must be some- 
thing serious; you are not the kind of man to take 


SORE STRICKEN. 


255 


this pronounced view for a mere fad. Yon are sit- 
ting here in this Palace breaking your heart, and my 
girl is sitting at home in her bedroom breaking hers. 
Damn it, sir, I want to know the reason why. There, 
I beg your pardon, I forgot for a minute that you 
were a Bishop. Still, you will admit that I have 
some cause to feel badly used over this. It is not a 
light thing to have one’s daughter’s marriage broken 
off in a moment in this way. It wouldn’t bo a light 
thing, if it were that we had found a man to be 
unworthy of her, if it were that a man had got 
tired of her, or that she had got tired of him, or 
that there was anything in her past, like there is in 
the past of plenty of women. It would be differ- 
ent then. But you two haven’t got tired of each 
other ” 

“My God,” muttered the Bishop under his breath, 
“ how long is this man going on ? ” 

“A man and a woman,” went on Sir Edward, 
who was too much excited to hear the Bishop’s in- 
vocation, “ don’t go on loving each other as you two 
did, right up to a certain point and then snap — like 
a bit of glass. I want to know what it is ! ” 

“ Well, Sir Edward, I won’t tell you,” said the 
Bishop, “ and that’s plain. Cecil has a reason ; it’s 
enough for her and it’s got to be enough for me. 
That she loves me,” he went on with a suspicious 
quaver in his tones, “ is my only consolation, my 


256 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


only bit of comfort. That I am absolutely hers, 
now and for all time to come, while I have any con- 
sciousness of my individualitj^, is equally certain. 
Please God that it may be some small consolation 
to her. Beyond that I simply refuse to say another 
word.” 

‘‘ I must ask you one more question,” Sir Edward 
said, after a moment’s pause. “Is there anj^ chance 
of things working out smooth again ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” the Bishop replied, “ that de- 
pends upon Cecil entirely. So far as I am con- 
cerned, Sir Edward, I assure you I have had no part 
in this unexpected and terrible rupture. I am ac- 
quiescing solely of necessity. If Cecil ever says 
‘ Come,’ I shall be ready ; if she never says that one 
word, I shall still be waiting for her. Bejmnd that, 
I can say nothing — indeed, there is nothing more 
for me to say.” 

“ Then it is no use our prolonging this interview. 
You are knocked all of a heap enough as it is,” said 
Sir Edward, rising. “ And I must say. Bishop, 
before I go, that I am something more than sorry, 
something more than grieved that this unpleasant 
business has happened. I was proud at the pros- 
pect of having ^mu for my son-in-law, I admire you 
and look up to you more than to any man of your 
cloth that I have ever known ; and although I sup- 
pose of necessity ordinary intercourse must, for a 


SORE STRICKEN. 


257 


time at least, cease between my house and yours, 
you’ll remember, won’t you, that you have one good 
friend at Raburn, who will always be glad to do 
you a service, and who will always be glad to come 
to you, whenever you ask him ? I can’t say more. I 
can do nothing it seems. Well, good-by. Bishop,” 
he said, holding out his hand and gripping the 
Bishop’s hard. “ I am more unhinged and cut up 
about this than words can say. Don’t come out 
with me, don’t stand on ceremon}^ with me. God 
bless you. Good-by.” 

It was many a long year since Sir Edward 
Constable had felt anything like the sensation of 
tears in his eyes, but he stumbled out of the Bish- 
op’s study like a man walking in his sleep and, as 
he went down the long corridor, he had to wink his 
eyes very, very hard, to force the treacherous drops 
back to their starting place. 

‘‘It’s a mystery,” his thoughts ran, as he drove 
homeward along the quiet country roads, “ and I 
shall probably never get to the bottom of it. But 
my girl has done a bad thing for herself to-day, she 
has missed the greatest chance of happiness that 
any woman ever had.” 

17 


CHAPTER XIX. 


FOOD FOR THE BUSY-BODIES. 

“ Life’s more than breath and the quick round of blood : 

It is a great spirit and a busy heart.” 

— Bailey. 

And I will cause you to pass under the rod.’’ 

— Ezekiel. 

With the following day the astounding news 
burst like a bombshell over all classes of society. 
In Blankhampton and Blankshire, the news ran 
like wildfire. Soon after nine o’clock in the morn- 
ing, Sir Edward’s confidential servant, Badger, 
set the ball rolling in the town itself, for he left 
a written intimation at each of the newspaper 
offices, asking them to be good enough to insert a 
paragraph in their next issue, to the effect that 
the marriage between the Lord Bishop of Blank- 
hampton and Miss Constable of Raburn, fixed 
for the 30th instant, would not take place. Then 
he went into the principal bookseller’s shop and 
ordered five hundred cards to be printed, with 


FOOD FOR THE BUST-BODIES, 


259 


the announcement containing tlie same informa- 
tion. 

“ But it isn’t true ? ” said the head of the busi- 
ness, staring at Badger with open-mouthed sur- 
prise. 

“ Yes, Mr. Thompkinson, it’s quite true,” said 
Badger in positive tones. 

“Is it him, or is it her ?” the bookseller asked. 

“ Well, vve don’t really know anything. How- 
ever, from what I can gather. Miss Constable and 
his lordship won’t say anything, but, of course, I 
know pretty well what Sir Edward thinks. It all 
happened yesterday afternoon, and Sir Edward 
went down to see the Bishop last night, and he 
thinks Miss Constable simply broke it off. Some 
of our people saw the Bishop come yesterday, just 
as smiling and happy as usual, and Matthew — 3^011 
know Matthew, the butler — he saw him off, when lie 
left half an hour later and he said he looked like 
death. As to Miss Constable, she’s like nothing 
but a ghost this morning.” 

“ Oh, then 3^11’ ve seen her ? ” 

“Yes, she came down to breakfast, she didn’t 
dine last night — but she came down to breakfast 
ibis morning. She looks like a ghost ; I couldn’t 
describe her looks as anything else.” 

You may imagine, in a busy town on a brilliant 
July morning, when most people in the habit of 


260 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


going to London during the season had flown back 
to their countiy seats for a couple of weeks, before 
going off to their foreign spas or other health-giv- 
ing resorts ; when the next set of people were wait- 
ing for their children’s holidays to begin, before they 
packed themselves and their belongings off to the 
seaside ; when everybody was out and about, and a 
great many were actually delaying their departure 
in order to be present at the Bishop’s wedding — 
you may imagine how the wonderful news spread 
from mouth to mouth. Everybody w^as incredulous, 
but there was no getting over the intimation written 
on the Baburn note paper, which Mr. Thompkin- 
son, the bookseller, kept in his shop all that day 
and showed to every customer that came in. Her 
ladyship of Ingleby was among those to whom the 
news came with the suddenness of a clap of summer 
thunder. 

‘‘ You have heard the news, of course,” said 
Lad}^ Alice Wynyard to her cousin, Monica Beau- 
mont, whom she met in St. Thomas’s Street. 

‘‘Hews, no — what news?” 

“ Cecil Constable’s engagement is broken off.” 

“ I don’t believe it.” 

“Well, go into Thompkinson’s and ask about it 
— they’ll tell you. I must be off now, for I am due 
at Mrs. Powell’s to get a couple of dresses fltted on. 
See yon afterwards, perhaps.” 


FOOD FOR THE BUSY-BODIES. 261 

She whisked into her ponj-trap, and was off be- 
fore her astonished cousin could say a word. Miss 
Beaumont turned on her heel and walked straio-ht 

O 

into the bookseller’s shop.’’ 

‘‘ What is this wonderful news, Mr. Thompkin- 
son ? ” 

News, Miss Beaumont ? About — Miss Con- 
stable’s engagement ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“It is — it is broken off — the marriage will not 
take place. You would like to see the note I had 
about it this morning ? Of course, I don’t consider 
this a breach of confidence— the sooner it is circu- 
lated, the better pleased the family will be. Yes, 
here it is,” laying a sheet of note-paper on the 
counter before her. 

“ Sir Edward Constable,” it read, “ wishes to in- 
form his friends that the marriage of his daughter 
to the Bishop of Blankhampton will not take place 
on the 30th instant.” 

“ I never was so surprised in my life,” said Miss 
Beaumont, breathlessly. 

“ Nor I, indeed. Madam,” said Mr. Thornpkinson, 
“ nor I. His lordship was here yesterday morning, 
and he seemed as bright and affable as usual, and 
the previous evening I saw them together at my own 
church — I live a few miles out, at Sparksworth. 
We had a special sermon from the Bishop on the 


262 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


occasion of a new organ being put into tlie church. 
Miss Constable sat just in front of me, and I don’t 
think there was anjdhing wrong then — in fact, I 
saw her drive home in the Bishop’s carriage with 
him.” 

‘‘ It is mbst extraordinary,” said Miss Beaumont, 
“ most extraordinary. I can’t make it out. Well, 
I came into town this morning to buy my wedding 
present, but I suppose I needn’t trouble about it 
now.” 

“ I think a good many wedding presents will be 
thrown back on their givers’ hands,” said Mr. 
Thompkinson; “we have had a good many bought 
here, very handsome ones too, and my neiglibor, 
Mr. Ward, the silversmith, was telling me just now 
that he had had quite a large quantity bought of 
him — in fact, they had to get quite a fresh assort- 
ment of goods down for the purpose.” 

“ I cannot make it out,” said Miss Beaumont. 

She did not linger any longer, but after the man- 
ner of people who have got a choice bit of news, a 
little before the rest of the world, she bustled out 
in search of those, to whom she might impart the 
astonishing information. She had already told 
three people when she saw the Ingleby carriage, 
with its light drab liveries faced with pale blue, 
coming down the street. A glance showed her 
that Lady Vivian was alone, so she unceremoni- 


FOOD FOR THE BUSY-BODIES. 


263 


onslj pnt up her hand as a signal to the coach- 
man to stop. 

“Oh, Lady Vivian,” she exclaimed, “ have you 
heard the news ? ’’ 

“ Kews, my dear — what news ? ” 

“ Cecil Constable’s engagement is off — the mar- 
riage is not going to take place.” 

“ Nonsense.” 

“ True. I have just seen the form of intimation 
which is being printed at Tliompkinson’s. It is in 
Sir Edward’s own writing — oh, there is no mistake 
about it. And they say Cecil is heart-broken.” 

“ And the Bishop ? ” asked Lady Vivian, in blank 
astonishment. 

“ Oh, well, nobody has seen him. They do say, 
but I can't say that it’s true, but they do say that 
he came to the conclusion that Cecil was too frivo- 
lous for him.” 

“I don’t believe that,” said Lady Vivian, 
promptly. 

“ No, well, that was what I said. But, of course, 
people will talk, and people will say what they 
think ; and, of course, in the face of such a sudden 
break off as this, people will think.” 

“ I shall go out to Kaburn and see— I must get 
to the bottom of this,” said Lady Vivian. 

In truth she was as good as her word, for she 
bade the coachman turn his horses and drive straight 


264 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


to Raburn. The dear lady might have saved lier- 
self the trouble, for Mattliew told her, with many 
apologetic gestures, that Miss Constable could not 
see anybody. 

“ Well, rd rather that you would take my name 
in. I think she will see me,” said Lady Yivian, 
who simply never admitted that she could be 
looked upon as an outsider in the matter of love 
affairs. 

“ I will do that, my lady, of course. Will you 
come in ? ” 

“ Xo, I will stay here, thank you.” 

So Matthew went in and intimated to Louise that 
her ladyship from Ingleby was waiting at the door 
and that she intended to see Miss Constable. 

“ Well, I will tell Mademoiselle that miladi is 
here, but I am sure she will not see her,” said Louise 
volubly. 

And, sure enough, after a couple of minutes, she 
came back and down into the hall again. 

‘‘Mademoiselle sends her love to miladi, and she 
is very sorry that she cannot see her. Slie is ex- 
ceedingly indisposed, suffering very much from a 
headache.” 

“ Is Sir Edward at home ? ” asked Lady Yivian, 
after a minute’s pause. 

“ I believe Sir Edward is at home, my lady,” re- 
plied Matthew, who really and honestly thought 


FOOD FOR THE BUSY-BODIES. 265 

that it would be good for his master to have some- 
body to talk to for a little while. 

“Well, ask Sir Edward if he will see me — I 
should like to see him.” 

When Matthew^’eturned he said, with a beaming 
countenance, carefully assorted with one of extreme 
miseiy, that Sir Edward was at home and would see 
Lady Yivian with pleasure. 

Lady Yivian, therefore, alighted from her car- 
riage with much satisfaction ; but, if the dear lady 
thought she was about to get exclusive and detailed 
information out of her old friend. Sir Edward Con- 
stable, she had for once in her life made a mistake. 
!Nobody can give information of which they are not 
actually in possession, and Sir Edward was not able 
to give Lady Yivian information which he had not 
been able to obtain for himself. 

“ I don’t think Cecil will see anybody,” he said, 
looking at her, with a becomingly mournful coun- 
tenance. “ You see she’s knocked over with this 
business.” 

“ But what is the reason. Sir Edward ? Has any- 
thing happened ? ” 

“'I don’t know. That’s what I want to know 
myself. I came home yesterday afternoon, and the 
whole thing was off. That is all I know about it. 
And lie is sitting in his great big Palace breaking 
his heart, and my girl is upstairs in her bedroom, 


266 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


breaking liers. I can’t tell you the reason, Lady 
Vivian, because I don’t know it myself. You know 
now just as much as I do about the whole affair.” 

‘‘ Did Cecil break it off ? ” 

“ Yes, Cecil broke it off.” 

‘‘ Do you think she found out tliat she was not 
fond of him — that she did not care enough about 
him ? ” 

‘‘No, I think not,” he answered promptly — “I 
don’t think she would be so knocked over if that 
was it. No, I don’t understand it — I don’t know 
what it means — it’s a mystery. I can get nothing 
out of either of them, except that both say the mar- 
riage cannot take place. But I don’t think. Lady 
Vivian — you know, you and I are old friends, and 
we can afford to speak plainly to each other — I 
don’t think you’d better speak of it to the Bishop ; 
he is pretty hard hit, and I came out of his room, 
last night, with a lump in my throat and something 
in my eyes that hadn’t been there for years.” 

Lady Vivian drew herself up with quite a shocked 
air. 

“ My dear Sir Edward,” she said reproachfully, 
“ I am the last person in the world who would be 
likely to say a single word to hurt the feelings of 
either of them. I felt, somehow, as I had the pleas- 
ure of introducing them to each other, that I was 
in a manner responsible for this engagement, and I 


FOOD FOR THE BUSY-BODIES. 


267 


am quite sure, from what I know of dear Cecil, that 
she would never have acted like this without some 
very good and sufficient reason ; and I really came 
on this morning, as soon as I heard the news, that 
1 might offer her my help. Possibly, after all, it 
is only something that may be put right yet.” 

‘‘ It was very good of you,” said Sir Edward mood- 
ily, “ and like your kind self to suggest that things 
may come right yet ; but I am afraid that is impos- 
sible. From what lean gather — they are both very 
reticent — but from what I can gather, Cecil broke 
off the engagement, and the Bishop acquiesces with- 
out a murmur. They’re in love with each other yet, 
my lady, and, as I said before, my girl’s breaking 
her heart upstairs and he’s breaking his heart over 
in his Palace yonder.” 

As a matter of fact, however, the Bishop was do- 
ins^ nothing of the kind. So far from sitting down 
to think over the inevitable, the unavoidable, he 
had gone down into Blankhampton, to hold his 
usual informal reception at his office ; for he was 
always accessible to the clergy on a cei’tain morning 
in the week, and had arranged for a room at his 
lawyer’s office, in order that those coming from a 
distance might be spared the long walk or the ex- 
pense of taking a cab to the Palace, which was 
about a mile and a half out of the town. It was an 
exceedingly painful duty ; but he did not shirk it. 


268 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


And the worst of it was that tliey all knew. Those 
who had made a special point of coming, in prospect 
of his two months’ absence, were in turn warned by 
liis secretary not to mention the subject. 

“ His Lordship is going away,” he said, to one 
after another, “ and will be away two months, but 
the marriage is put off.” 

“ Definitely ? ” they all asked. 

‘‘ That is more than I can tell you,” was the 
guarded reply. 

So as each clerical gentleman was shown into his 
presence, did the Bishop of Blankhampton realize 
that they had heard the latest Blankhampton news. 
Ho one, of course, uttered a single word even dis- 
tantly bearing on the subject, no one so much as 
hinted at it in the most remote way, but the man- 
ner of each was unmistakable, and the Bishop, 
suffering as he was from the first sharp edge of 
the wound, was keenly alive to every glance, every 
tone, and even every thought that seemed to be 
passing through their several minds. 

That over, which was about four o’clock, the 
Bishop took leave of his secretary and walked 
home. Hot a single person ventured to stop and 
exchange greetings with him, though it seemed to 
liim as if he met everybody in the town, everybody 
in the neighborhood; and every single one who 
passed him by felt a great throb of pity for him, 


FOOD FOR THE BUSY-BODIES. 


269 


and an equally strong feeling of indignation against 
the young lady who had set that look of anxious 
pain upon the face of the most popular man in the 
whole county. The sentimental Maria, who was 
w’alking with a friend down St. Thoinas’s Street, 
had just heard the news, and the sight of the 
Bishop coming towering along with his blanched, 
liaggard face — and he was a man whom pallor and 
haggardness did not improve by any means — nearly 
fainted as she passed him by. 

“ Oh, I say, doesn’t he look bad ? ” said Maria’s 
friend. Fancy his liking to go out ! ” 

I do not suppose he liked to come out,” said 
Maria, in a stifled voice, but he is not the sort of 
man that would shrink from a duty, however hard 
it was.” 

“ I wonder why she broke it off ? ” her friend 
continued, not noticing Maria’s agitation. “ She 
must have had a reason. I wonder if she found 
out she wasn’t fond enough of him, or what it 
was ? ” 

“ Oh, she was fond enough of him ! ” said Maria. 

“ Do you think she was ? ” 

I am sure of it,” said Maria with conviction. 

“Well, I don’t know,” said the other, “ you never 
know with ladies of her position what they mean 
and what they don’t. Everybody says she was 
only marrying him for his position, and I should 


270 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP, 


tliink, if the truth be told, she has got a better 
catch on.” 

“ That’s as may be,” said Maria sententiously. 

“ At all events, she isn’t walking about,” said 
Maria’s friend. “ I have been out twice to-day and 
I haven’t seen her.” 

She scarcely would be in any case,” said Maria 
with dignity. 

Poor Cecil ! At that very moment she was sit- 
ting on the bank of the river which divided her 
father’s estate from that of his nearest neighbor, 
not weeping, no, her grief was too deep for that, 
but just sitting with her elbows on her knees, star- 
ing at the deep eddying river which at that point 
was swift and dangerous. The Bend, as they called 
that particular corner of the park, was considered 
one of the prettiest views in the neighborhood. 
The sun was blazing overhead like a great diamond 
in a bed of turquoise, flowers dotted the bank as far 
as the eye could see, the birds were singing merrily, 
diminutive frogs were hopping restlessly about, and 
sly-looking water-voles whisked in and out of their 
earthy homes. To Cecil it was all blank. Her 
faithful pug sat upon the tail of her gown, snorting 
as pugs do, and every now and again casting large- 
eyed glances toward her, as if he realized that she 
was in trouble. But Cecil was blind and deaf and 
dumb, filled only with a huge sense of utter misery. 


FOOD FOR THE BUSY-BODIES. 


271 


and feeling that the sword of Damocles had fallen, 
and that her life had come to an end, feeling that 
she had done with happiness in this world, and had 
not even the hope of either happiness or misery in 
a world to come. 


CHAPTER XX. 


ALONE IN THE WOKLD. 

Life may change, but it may fly not ; 

Hope may vanish, but can die not ; 

Truth be veiled, but still it burneth ; 

Love repulsed — but still returneth.” 

— Shelley. 


“ There is no hope ; no ; — ” 

— Jeremiah, 

The nine days’ wonder died out as nine days’ 
wonders generally do. After that time the good 
people of Blankhampton and Blankshire accepted 
the new order of things as best they could. In due 
course of time all the guests invited to the wedding 
received Sir Edward’s intimation that it would not 
take place. Gradually the presents were returned, 
but an awkwardness arose about those which had 
been presented by the different tenants and house- 
holds of the respective families which w’ould have 
been united by the marriage. The Raburn ten- 
antry, indeed, created a precedent and settled the 
matter definitely, for a deputation waited upon Sir 


ALONE IN THE WORLD. 


273 


Edward and told him that there was a general feel- 
ing among the givers of the toilet-service; they 
would be deeply gratified if Miss Constable would 
honor them by accepting their gift, the broken-off 
engagement notwithstanding. 

“You see, Sir Edward,” said the principal 
speaker, “ we all feel very strongly that this pres- 
ent was given to Miss Constable, as Miss Constable 
of Eaburn, rather than to the future wife of the 
Bishop ; and we feel equally sure that she had a 
good reason for breaking off her marriage, so that 
we should all like her to feel that we sympathize 
with her in what must be an exceedingly unpleas- 
ant situation. And, therefore, we hope that she 
will accept it and use it.” 

“ Mr. Soames,” said Sir Edward, “ I will tell my 
daughter what you say. I am sure that she will be 
greatly pleased and honored by this expression of 
your regard for her. It is a great sorrow to me 
that the marriage will not take place. My daugh- 
ter is not well and therefore cannot see you and 
thank you for herself, but I will write to you to- 
night and tell you what she has to say in reply to 
your kindness.” 

“ Yery good. Sir Edward,” replied Mr. Soames. 

Of course in the face of such consideration as 
this, Cecil had no choice but to accept the beautiful 
service of silver which was to have adorned her 
18 


274 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


toilet-table as the mistress of the Palace. She 
wrote a letter of thanks to Mr. Soames, and directed 
Louise to pack the exquisite things up and carry 
them down to Matthew that he might put them 
away in the strong room. She never thought of 
using the service, and if her father’s good tenantry 
believed that she was several times a day reminded 
of their sympathy for her, why, they were mis- 
taken, though they were none the worse for the 
kindly thought. 

The example of the Paburn people was followed 
by the Petherby tenantry, and by all who had com- 
bined to give one thjng from many. So these mat- 
ters were disposed of, and Blankhampton people got 
used to the idea that their Bishop was still, and was 
likely to remain, a bachelor. 

During the fortnight which elapsed between the 
social convulsion, which shook all classes of society, 
and the original date fixed for the marriage, the 
Bishop went about his business exactly as he had 
done aforetime. It is true that the want of sleep 
and the presence of a crushing sorrow had set their 
unmistakable mark upon him. lie looked haggard 
and ill. He admitted to more than one that he was 
badly in need of rest and change, and on the even- 
ing of the 29th, he went away for an eight weeks’ 
holiday, and Blankhampton people forgot to talk 
about him any more. 


ALONE IN THE WORLD. 


275 


As for Cecil Constable, nobody saw her. Twice 
did Lady Yivian find her way to Eabnrn, but Cecil 
would not, or at least did not, see her. Then she 
wrote a friendly little note to her : 

My Dear Child : 

“ Why will you not see me ? Kothing is 
so bad for those in trouble as brooding over their 
sorrows. I am sure that you must be in trouble at 
this time, and it would unburden your mind if you 
talked it all over with me. For your sweet moth- 
er’s sake, my child, let me come and see you. I 
think of you so often, so much, and my heart aches 
for you, although I do not know the whys and 
wherefores of the new state of things. 

“ Always your affectionate friend, 

“ Mary Yivian.” 

But Cecil was obdurate. Her answer went back 
by return of post : 

“Dear Lady Yivian,” she said, 

“ God bless you. I cannot see anyone. 
The wound is too deep. 

“ Your grateful and affectionate 

“ Cecil.” 

“ Are you never going to see anyone again ? ” Sir 
Edward asked, when he realized that Cecil had 
denied herself to Lady Yivian for the second time. 


276 


TEE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


“ 1 do not know,” she answered. ‘‘ Not if I can 
help it.” 

‘‘ But you cannot shut youself up as if you were 
a nun in a cloister.” 

“ No, I know that, but it’s early days yet. Dad ; 
give me a little time to pull myself together in. It 
will have to come, I know ; and then she will ask 
me, in that kind, purring, pussy-cat way of hers, 
fifty questions that I cannot and will not answer. 
1 shall have to go through it, I know, but every 
day that I can put it off will make me feel it 
less.” 

Don’t you think that w^e had better go away ? ” 
he asked. 

“No — at least, not yet, dear; we might go tow- 
ard the end of September, don’t you think? And 
stay away — oh, till your hunting begins.” 

“ Oh, never mind my hunting ; that needn’t 
count. You would like to go away toward the end 
of September. Well, where shall we go ? ” 

“ 1 don’t care — somewlifete tolerably warm. If 
we go for a couple of months, that will put the time 
on.” 

“Well, well, we can see about that when we get 
away,” he answered. 

Eventually this was what they did. When the 
time drew near for the Bishop to return to Blank- 
hampton. Sir Edward and Cecil went away, with a 


ALONE IN THE WOULD. 


277 


good deal of luggage, and attended by Badger and 
Louise. They went to Carlsbad first, and then 
moved about, staying a few days here or a week 
there, and returning home by way of Korth Italy. 
And by the middle of Kovember they found them- 
selves once more at Baburn. This was by Cecil’s 
wish. Sir Edward, the least selfish of men, had 
pressed her very hard not to consider him or his 
hunting in any way. 

“I can’t ride as I used to do,” he explained, ‘‘and 
I am not so gone on it as I used to be ; and in any 
case, you need not think about me, one way or the 
other. I am very happy where I am — I can make 
myself happy anywhere.” 

“ I would rather go back,” said Cecil ; “ oh, yes, 
dear, I would really much rather go back. I am 
getting to want to be at home again. You know 
we found it so before. It is much nicer to be amono; 
our own people again, especially during the cold 
weather. At all events^ we will go home for a lit- 
tle time — I would much rather.” 

Somehow Sir Edward got it into his head that 
she wanted to go home because she had a hanker- 
ing after the Bishop, and as, above all things, he 
still desired that the marriage should come about, 
he cheerfully acquiesced in what he believed to be 
her desire. Bow, as a matter of fact, Cecil’s only 
motive in suggesting that they should return home. 


278 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


was from a conscientious scruple that it was selfish 
of her to keep her father away from his beloved 
hunting, and from among his own people. For 
herself, she dreaded the return more than words 
can express. 

However, as often happens with things to which 
we have looked forward with great dread, the reality 
was less painful than she had feared. Everyone 
seemed very delighted to see her and, by tacit con- 
sent, nobody in any way approached the subject of 
her engagement to the Bishop ; and, as her father 
was inexpressibly happy among his own people and 
occupied by his own pursuits, she was happy and 
thankful in the fact that she had forced herself to 
be strong enough to take what she had felt to be 
the right course. 

They had been at home about three weeks, when 
she nerved herself to go and call upon Lady Yivian. 
I will not deny for a moment that it was an ordeal 
for the girl to face, for Lady Yivian was the one 
woman in Blankshire who could not be frozen or 
snubbed into silence on the subject of her broken 
engagement. However, Cecil felt she must put a 
good face on it and break the ice, so she drove 
over one afternoon, finding, to her dismay, that Lady 
Yivian was at home. She followed the servant in- 
to the house with a sinking heart. 

“ This way, ma’am, if you please,” he said. 


ALONE IN THE WORLD. 


2T9 


She knew the way much better than he did, for 
he happened to be a new footman who did not 
know” her. The butler had gone to towm on busi- 
ness for Sir Thomas, but had that solemn and im- 
portant functionary himself been at home, it is 
probable that what happened next would not have 
happened, for, knowing who was with his mistress, 
he certainly would not have flung open the door of 
the boudoir to announce in stentorian tones — “ Miss 
Constable.’’ 

I think to her dying day Cecil Constable never 
forgot the supreme agony of that moment. There 
w”ere flve or six people in the room and close to Lady 
Vivian sat the Bishop of Blankhampton. It is no 
exaggeration to say that Lady Vivian nearly died, 
indeed she was so scared at this unexpected turn, 
that, although she rose and greeted Cecil with me- 
chanical effusion, kissing her first on one cheek and 
then on the other, she had not the smallest idea of 
what she was really doing. There were two ladies 
in the room,‘wives of officers just come to the gar- 
rison, who did not know Cecil or the story of her 
affair with the Bishop. They therefore simply sat 
still and looked on. Cecil had advanced into the 
room too far to draw back, and in that moment she 
realized that how”ever great the agony might be, she 
must still behave as if it w^ere quite an ordinary 
occasion. She therefore spoke to the two other 


280 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


ladies, both of whom she knew, and then turned to 
tlie Bishop and held out her hand to liiin. 

It was the first time that they had seen each other 
since the dreadful day, following the evening, when 
the Bishop had preached that memorable sermon in 
Sparksworth Church. To the five pairs of eyes 
eagerly watching the unhappy pair, who had hoped 
to be husband and wife by that time, they met with 
wonderful calmness and self-possession. It is true 
that Cecil Constable’s voice died away in her throat, 
as she tiled to utter some words of greeting to the 
man she loved with all her soul. And it is true 
that the Bishop’s blue eyes were filled with inde- 
scribable agon3\ Still, they met as ordinary ac- 
quaintances, touched hands and even, in their con- 
fusion, sat down side by side upon the same couch. 
It happened that the Bishop had been the last to 
arrive of Lady Vivian’s callers, so that he had no 
excuse, short of openly slighting Cecil, to cut the 
visit short. 

‘‘I did not know that you were- back, Cecil,” 
said Lady Vivian very kindly, yet with a suspicious 
nervousness in her tones. “ Have you been home 
long?” 

“ Some little time,” said Cecil, conscious that 
everyone was hanging on her words. “ We came 
back for Father’s hunting.” 

“And you have had a pleasant time away ? ” 


ALONE IN THE WORLD. 


2S1 


y^s, we went to a good inanj places,” slie 
answered. 

“ Yon have not met Mrs. St. Manr,” said Lady 
Yivian, indicating one of the two ladies whom Cecil 
did not know. 

“No,” said Cecil, “ I think we have not met.” 

“ Mrs. St. Manr and Mrs. Hattersley are both be- 
longing to the new regiment,” Lady Vivian ex- 
plained. 

Whereupon, Cecil bowed and the two ladies 
bowed, and Cecil mnrmnred something indefinite 
abont calling, and then the two ladies, all unknow- 
ing of the tragedy which was being enacted under 
their very eyes, bade adien to Lady Vivian, and be- 
took themselves away. 

Lady Vivian was more on tenter-hooks than ever. 

During the time that the two ladies were making 
their farewells, she perceived that Cecil and the 
Bishop were talking to each other. As a matter of 
fact, he had tui-ned abruptly toward her and was 
scanning her sa’d, lovely face with his own blue eyes, 
more full of love than ever. 

“ Tell me,” he said, in an undertone, “ how are 
you ? ” 

“I arn alive, yes,” she answered. 

“ You have been away a long time.” 

“Yes,” she replied, “a long time; but I could 
not keep poor dear Father out of his hunting any 


2S2 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


longer. B e did not want to come home, but I felt 
that I should be happier if 1 knew that he was not 
kept away. He hates being abroad so — you know 
he does.” 

“I don’t blame him. You know,” he added 
abruptly, you are looking very ill.” 

‘‘ I am not ill,” she answered, “ I eat and drink 
and do things pretty much as usual — I am not really 
ill. But you — how are you ? ” 

“ I ? Oh, I am — like you, I am alive ; and that 
is about all I can say for myself.” 

In the meantime. Lady Yivian had made a point 
of talking to her two other visitors, both of whom 
knew to the full the awkwardness of the situation, 
and pitied both the Bishop and Cecil with all their 
hearts. Therefore, when Lady Yivian began an 
elaborate conversation, which was utterly at variance 
with everything that they had in their minds and 
hearts, or with what they had been talking of before, 
they took their cue from her and met her more than 
half way in her endeavors to smooth over the ex- 
treme awkwardness of the situation. 

“ You were asking me the other day,” she said to 
one of them, “ about my new chrysanthemums. I 
have only a few, but they are in perfection just now ; 
would you like to see them ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, I should very much,” the lady replied, 
understanding that Lady Yivian knew perfectly well 


ALONE IN THE WOULD. 


283 


that she cared no more about chrysanthemums than 
she did about cauliflowers, and that tliis was but an 
excuse to leave the two over there on the wide lounge 
together. 

“ Then come this way and I will show them to 
you. Oh, you didn’t know that I had a conservatory 
through the winter-garden ? Oh, yes, and it is in 
great beauty just now. We are going into the con- 
servatory — I’ve got some new chrysanthemums,” 
she said in louder tone to Cecil. “ You know the 
way.” 

“ Oh, yes ; I will come too,” said Cecil, rising at 
once. 

But Lady Vivian did not wait for her. She had 
whisked her other two visitors through the door 
leading into the winter-garden, and, flnding that 
they were gone, the Bishop drew Cecil back on to 
her seat again. 

“ Don’t go,” he said reproachfully, she doesn’t 
mean us to go ; she doesn’t care anything about 
chrysanthemums and she knows that we don’t. Tell 
me — I have not seen you for ages — how is it with 
you ? ” 

‘‘ 111,” Cecil replied. 

Are things going no better — have you not 
changed your mind yet ? ” 

‘‘ No,” slie said, shaking her head, ‘‘ things are 
no better with me than they were then. I would 


284 : 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP, 


have liked never to come back to Blankshire at all, 
blit I could not keep poor Father away from his 
own people and from his beloved hunting any longer. 
He did not want to come, but I felt it was so self- 
ish, for my own sake, to keep him abroad any 
longer.’’ 

“ There is no reason,” said the Bishop, “ why you 
should be exiled from your own people.” 

I think the pain is less,” said Cecil simply. 
“ But it doesn’t matter how I feel — I am indiiferent 
about myself now. But you — tell me — how do you 
get on ? ” 

‘‘I am alive,” repeated the Bishop — do my 
work and I eat and I go to bed and I get up in the 
morning.” 

“ You went away,” she said, in a shaking voice. 

“Yes, I went away — I went to Switzerland — and 
I buried myself in a little Swiss village, quite off 
the beaten track. I thought about ^mu a good 
deal.” 

“ Yes — ? ” Her tone was very eager and invited 
him to go on. 

“ Why,” he said, “ you expected me to think 
about you, didn’t you ? ” 

A faint flush crept over her blanched cheeks. 

“I don’t know — I didn’t know what you might 
be feeling about me. I did not know what you 
might be feeling against me.” 


ALONE IN THE WORLD. 


285 


“ Against you ! ” lie echoed. He caught her 
hands with what was almost a cry. “ Oh, my 
dear ! ” he exclaimed, “ have you been thinking all 
these long weeks, that I left you that day in anger ? 
Dearest, I was never angry with you in my life. 
Could I be angry ? Could any man be angry, when 
a calamity so dire, so unlooked for, and so stupen- 
dous, had fallen upon the woman he loved ? Did 
you think I was such a fair-weather friend as that ? 
Why, no. I gave you my love, not on a lease, but 
freehold for all time ; that fate has come in to part 
us makes no difference to my love for you. I shall 
love you, beyond all else in this world, to the very 
end of time. But I thought that you understood 
that the blow had been as much as I could bear — I 
thought that you realized that.” 

‘‘Ho,” she said. “ If I had not been the one to 
strike the blow, I might have realized it ; as it was, 
1 was afraid to think so. I should almost have been 
Sony to think so. I think that I would almost rather 
that you were angry with me. I believe it would 
make life easier to me to think so. And yet, I 
don’t know,” she added, “ I don’t know.” 

“ I may come and see you ? ” he asked, after a 
moment. 

“I think not,” she said hesitatingly. “If I 
found that I had mistaken my mind, I would tell 
you at once ; but, as it is, I can only tell you that it 


286 


TEE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


hurts less when I don’t see you. I have always the 
chance of meeting you when I am out in the world 
— in this part of the world, at all events — and it is 
such agony to know that every eye is watching us, 
every ear is open to catch each word that we let fall, 
that everyone is thinking about us and wondering 
and conjecturing — oh, it is dreadful I I would so 
like to go away where nobody knows me.” 

‘‘ But you don’t think,” he said anxiously, “ that 
it would help you ? ” 

“ Not a bit,” she said, “ not a bit. Nothing will 
help me. I have taken my fate into my own hands 
and I have been honest with you ; that is the only 
crumb of satisfaction that I have. For the rest, my 
whole life is a blackened waste, and the sooner it is 
over and I am no longer able to think, the happier 
for me. No, don’t come to see me — not yet, at all 
events. By and by, perhaps, time will have blunted 
our feelings a little.” 

“ Do you think it ever will ? ” he asked, in deep- 
est reproach, and yet speaking very tenderly. 

“ No,” she cried, in a tone of sharp pain, ‘‘ I 
don’t think so — I am sure that it never will. I will 
go home now — I wish I had not come — and yet I 
am glad that I did.” 

‘‘ And you will promise me, that you will send for 
me, if at any time you feel the very smallest gleam 
of hope ? ” he said, taking her hands in his again. 


ALONE IN THE WORLD, 287 

‘‘ Oh, yes ; need you ask me for such a promise ? 
Don’t you Jmow tliat I would ? ” 

“And you will promise me, won’t you,” he con- 
tinued, “ that you will not shut yourself up in your 
blank unbelief, without trying to let the light in. 
If I may not come to see you, at least you will let 
me send such books as I think will help you — you 
will come to hear me preach sometimes — you will 
go to hear others — you will not sit down with 
folded hands and say, ‘"'I will not even try to be- 
lieve?”’ 

“ ]!^o,” she said, “ I will not do that, I will read 
anything that you send me. I don’t think I can 
bear to come and hear you preach ; I will try to do 
so, but the pain of it would be dreadful. You must 
not expect that of me — at least, not for a time. And 
now, I would really like to go home. I know what 
Lady Vivian is thinking — she is talking it over with 
those two women, and they are still admiring those 
wretched chrysanthemums ; and they will go in the 
other way and have tea in the hall at five. It is just 
five now — they always have tea in the hall at five. 
Couldn’t you ring for the carriage ? ” 

“ Of course I could ; of course I will. You have 
only to express a wish. Besides, Lady Yivian is very 
kind, she would not wish to wound you.” 

“ Oh, no — I know. She is very kind ; she is try- 
ing to help us, but she little thinks how impossible 


2S8 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


a task slie lias set herself. But yon won’t leave be- 
fore me — ring for the carriage, and then we will go 
and say good-by, and you can see me into it. That 
will prevent her asking any questions. You can 
order yours at the same time, if you want to avoid 
being cross-examined.” 

“Lady Yivian will not cross-examine me,” said 
the Bishop. 

“ Oh, I don’t know. Kind people who take an 
interest in their friends’ business are capable of any- 
thing. Yes, thank you,” she said, as he rang the 
bell. 

In a couple of minutes the footman made his ap- 
pearance again. 

“Will you see if my carriage is round?” Cecil 
asked. 

“ And mine also,” added the Bishop. 

“ Certainly, ma’am ; yes, my lord. Tea is served 
in the hall, ma’am,” he replied, and disappeared. 

“We will go out this wa}^” said the Bishop, point- 
ing toward the conservatory. “We, too, had better 
look at the chrysanthemums.” 

So they strolled through the winter-garden and 
the conservatories. I am afraid that neither of them 
looked at the beautiful white natural fringes of which 
Lady Yivian was so proud, but they strolled with 
admirable unconcern into the hall, where the three 
ladies and a couple of men staying in the house 


ALONE IN THE WORLD, 


289 


were assembled. They found afternoon tea was in 
full swing. 

“ A cup of tea % ” said, Cecil. “ Oli, thank you ; 
yes, Lady Vivian, I will have one.” 

Lady Vivian poured it out and the Bishop took 
it to her, followed by one of the young men carry- 
ing a plate of muffins. 

“ Yes, I am very fond of muffins,” said Cecil, try- 
ing to speak lightly ; “ but I must take my glove off. 
1 cannot bear eating in a glove.” 

She was excited and flushed, and as for the Bish- 
op, he could not help all his love shining out of his 
honest eyes, so that Lady Vivian had quite an idea 
that her cleverness in making the wa}^ clear for them 
had smoothed the troubles of the affair quite away. 

You are not going, my dear ? ” she said pres- 
ently, when Cecil rose to her feet and bade her 
good-by. Oh, but I have hardly seen you.” 

‘‘ I am afraid I must go,” said Cecil. “ I always 
like to be back when my father comes in ; and be- 
sides, he has two men staying with him, so that I 
would rather get back. He will be uneasy about me. 
And our special tyrant William likes me to be in 
before the hunters come home.” 

Well, of course, if you put it in that way, I 
must not attempt to keep you,” said the lady of 
Ingleby kindly. “ Perhaps the Bishop will see you 
into your carriage.” 

19 


290 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


“ I will, with pleasure,’’ said the Bishop, in his 
most courtly manner; ‘‘ and if you will excuse my 
running away, I will say good-by also.” 

Oh, 1 must not attempt to encroach upon your 
time. I think it is very good of you to come and 
see me at all — such a busy man as you must be. 
Then, good-by. Bishop; good-by, dear Cecil. 
Come and see me again soon, dear.” 

1 will,” said Cecil, “ I will.” 

You may imagine how Lady Yivian and her vis- 
itors talked the situation over, when the two princi- 
pal actors thereof had actually gone. 

“What a lucky ciiance that they met here!” 
Lady Vivian exclaimed. “ I don’t believe they have 
met once since the engagement was broken off. Ko- 
body ever knew why it was, and I know Cecil was 
heart-broken. Fancy their going away together like 
that ! Did he go away in her carriage, I wonder ? ” 
“i^o, he did not,” said one of the men, “I went 
out on purpose to see. He stood for ever so long at 
the carriage door, but he did not go back with her.” 

“ Ah, well, of course, his home lies one way and 
her’s another; and people cannot break existing 
arrangements all in a moment. Very possibly he is 
dining out somewhere, and we know that Cecil had 
a reason for wishing to get home. At all events, I 
am thoroughly well pleased that they happened to 
meet again, and that they met here.” 


CHAPTER XXL 


“ AMEN ! ” 


“ A sacred burden in this life ye bear ; 

Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly ; 

Stand up, and walk beneath it, steadfastly.” 

• — Keble. 


“ And her gates shall lament and mourn: and she, being des- 
olate, shall sit upon the ground.” 

— Isaiah. 


Bet altliongli the old city of Blankharnpton and 
the surrounding neighborhood rang for a week or 
more with rumors that the marriage between the 
Bishop and Miss Constable would come off after all, 
the interested spectators of the drama received no 
confirmation of the truth of such a report ; and, like 
many other such whispers, it died out without any- 
tliino; definite cominoj of it. 

So time went on. Once more spring flowers 
bloomed and faded, golden summer shed her ra- 
diance and her fragrance on the earth ; tender au- 
tumn came in, and more than a year had gone by 
since the Bishop and Cecil had parted hands. They 


292 


THE SOUL OP THE BISHOP. 


had only met once again since that day when they 
liad met in Lady Vivian’s drawing-room, and then 
they had not foregathered. Indeed, it had been an 
occasion on which it would not have been easy for 
them to do so. But althougli to the Bishop this 
chance meeting had been as balm in Gilead, it is no 
use dis^uisinoj the fact that to Cecil Constable it 
gave only untold agony. I^’aturally they had never 
met at dinner anywhere, as nobody had thought of 
asking them on the same evening. 

She had kept her promise to him in one way, in- 
asmuch as she had read many times over every line 
that he had sent her. She had also listened to 
many sermons, but she had never yet been present 
when the Bishop himself was the preacher. 

In September the Bishop went away for his 
annual holiday, but this year he did not go to 
Switzerland for that change and rest which were 
doubly indispensable to him in his disappointed 
and saddened life. Instead he went to Southamp- 
ton and there embarked on a friend’s yacht and, 
together with three other men, went off for a long 
cruise, including ^Torway, Iceland, and the Faroe 
Isles ; and when he returned home to Blankhamp- 
ton Palace, he learnt that Sir Edward Constable and 
his daughter had gone abroad. 

November came and went. Hunting was in full 
swing, but Sir Edward Constable did not return to 


AMEN! 


293 


take any part in it. The Bishop heard from Lady 
Vivian that they were spending the winter at San 
Bemo, and also that the doctors had absolutely for- 
bidden Sir Edward to run the risk of spending any 
portion of the winter in England, and that Cecil 
wrote in much depression about him, and seemed 
terribly anxious and ill at ease. Indeed, she showed 
him the letter which she had received that morning 
from Cecil. 

“ Dear father is very much more unwell than he 
thinks or will admit for a moment. He has sud- 
denly turned quite white and looks to me veiy 
shrunken and thin. He is continually having 
attacks of bronchitis, indeed they always seem to 
follow the smallest over-exertion, and I cannot get 
him to take any care of himself. If it were not for 
Badger and Louise, I really don’t know what I should 
do. The worst of it is that he hates this place and 
abominates the cooking, finding fault with every- 
thing, and contrasting it with the comforts of 
Baburn. I wanted to move to Bice, which I thought 
would be more cheerful, but Sir Henry Mallam, who 
has been here to visit the Archduchess Marie, saw 
him and absolutely forbade our even thinking of it, 
so here I suppose we shall remain until the winter 
is over. And it is now only the middle of December. 
You don’t know how I dread the next three or four 


294 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


months, but as soon as ever the east winds are gone, 
we shall go home at once.” 

“ I am afraid,” said Lady Yivian, in her kindly 
tones, ‘‘ that things are going very hardly with our 
old friends. I arn very sorry for Cecil. You see. 
Bishop, she is alone in the world. They have 
practically no relations, she is really the last of the 
Constables ; and what would happen to her if Sir 
Edward were to die, I cannot think. And I had so 
hoped,” she went on, not looking at him, but 
assiduously contemplating the silken sock that was 
quickly growing under her deft fingers, “ I had so 
hoped that things would be so very different for 
her.” 

However, if Lady Yivian had any idea that she 
was about to draw any confidence out of the Bishop, 
she was mistaken. He got up at once. 

“ I am very sorry. I have a very great i*egard for 
Sir Edward. Your news has grieved me very much,” 
he said, letting the question of the might have been 
pass unnoticed. ‘‘But we can only hope for the 
best, these matters are in Higher hands than ours. 
I can only hope that, if the worst comes. Miss Con- 
stable will be sustained in such a grievous afflic- 
tion.” 

He put out his hand and bade her good-by, with- 
out giving her any chance of, so to speak, probing 


“ AMEN! 


295 


his wound again, and almost before she realized he 
was taking leave of her, he had gone. 

“ I believe,” said Ladj Vivian to herself, letting 
the silken sock fall upon her knee, I believe that 
it was he who broke oft the engagement. Poor 
Cecil ! ” 

That night the Bishop wrote to Miss Constable, 
telling her how grieved he was at what he had heard, 
and asking her if there was anything lie could do to 
help her at this time ? The letter was such an one 
as any Bishop might write to any important person 
in his diocese; but Cecil received it, read it, kissed 
it, and wept over it, realizing in every word what, to 
an ordinary person, would have conveyed nothing. 
Her answer came back in a few days and was brief 
enough. 

‘‘ Your letter has been a great comfort to me,” she 
began without prefix, “ it is no use pretending to you 
that I do not know what is coming upon me. My 
father is dying. He gets up, he even goes out, but 
although the doctors will say nothing definite, I 
know that the end will not be far off. I am very 
unhappy and I am utterly alone. Pray for me, for 
I cannot pray for myself. 

« Your Cecil.” 

And so the weeks crept by. At the end of Feb- 
ruary, the news came to Baburn that Sir Edward 


296 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


Constable was dead. The good people of Blanksliire 
very soon learned all that there was to know of the 
popular baronet’s last hours. The local papei’S stated 
that the death had been comparatively sudden, that 
although Sir Edward had been in failing health for 
some months, yet till within a week of his death he 
had been able to drive out every day, and usually to 
take walking exercise also. Some slight imprudence, 
in staying out half an hour longer than usual, had 
brought on a severe attack of bronchitis, under which 
he had rapidly succumbed. The notices also stated 
that Mr. Alderton, Sir Edward’s agent, and Mr. 
Scott, the family lawyer, had, immediately on receipt 
of the news, started for San Eemo. Also that Sir 
Edward would be brought home and be laid beside 
his wife in Eaburn churchyard. 

It was a terrible week for Cecil Constable. She 
travelled home with Louise and Badger, leaving the 
agent and the lawyer to escort the precious remains 
of her dead father. It was a terrible home-coming. 
To feel that she was alone in that great, echoing, 
silent house ; to feel that so long as she lived, she 
would always be alone in it ; to feel that she was 
now absolutely alone in the world, mistress of that 
great estate, and with only such comfort as could be 
found in the thought of a broken past, a sorrowful 
present, and a perfectly hopeless future. 

And all day long, people streamed up and down 


“ AMEN! ” 


297 


the avenue at Raburn, leaving cards and messages 
of condolence, and many beautiful flowers in affec- 
tionate remembrance of him who was gone from 
among them. Indeed, by the time the coffin arrived, 
the great library, which had been made into a clia- 
pelle ardente^ was all alight with those lovely tokens, 
and the air was heavy and sick with their perfume. 
Among other callers came the Bishop, who had 
never passed under the great elms since that bright 
July day when he and Cecil had parted, now a year 
and a half ago. The estimable Matthew, who was 
himself in dire distress at the death of his adored 
master, could not help noticing how changed and 
aged he was. 

“Miss Constable has taken it to heart very much, 
my lord,” he said. “ You see. Sir Edwai’d and she 
thought a deal of each other, and it’s only natural 
she should feel it now he has gone.” 

“Very natural,” said the Bishop, “quite natural. 
And you will give her this note, Matthew, won’t 
you ? ” 

“ I will, my lord,” said Matthew, taking the note 
as if it were something that would melt in his 
grasp. 

“I assure you, Mrs. Fincher,” he said to the cook, 
a few minutes later, “ that his lordship looks a good 
ten years older than he did the last time he came to 
Kaburu.” 


298 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


“ I never understood that break-ofP,” said Mrs. 
Pinclier. “ And neither did poor Sir Edward, Pm 
quite sure of that, from what he said to me.” 

“ What did he say to you ? ” Matthew demanded. 

“Well, I never told,” said Mrs. Pincher, “it’s 
not my habit to go babbling round over every bit 
of information that comes to me. But, as a matter 
of fact — it doesn’t matter now, though I don’t ex- 
pect this to be repeated, Matthew — but, as a matter 
of fact, I was taking a look round at the currant 
bushes one day, for Timmins informed me that 
there wasn’t enough red currants for me to start 
on my jelly, so I took a look round to satisfy myself 
on that point. I made a fifty pounds of jelly that 
week,” she added, “ but that’s neither here nor 
there, Matthew. Well, while I was sti-olling round 
the garden who should I meet but Sir Edward. 
‘ Ah, Mrs. Pincher,’ he said, ‘ are you looking after 
your currants?’ ‘I am. Sir Edward,’ said I, ‘and I 
must say, I think there’s a fair tidy show.’ And 
then, you know how free and easy he was, in his 
own 'igli and ’aughty way. Sir Edward he got talk- 
ing first about one thing and then about another ; 
and then, he says, ‘ Ah, Mrs. Pincher,’ says he, ‘ I 
had hoped things would be different.’ ‘ Well, Sir 
Edward,’ says I, ‘ they would have been different, if 
my lord and my young lady ’adn’t changed their 
minds.’ ‘ As far as I can make out, Mrs. Pincher,’ 


^^AMEN.f 


299 


says lie, ‘ they’ve neither of them changed their 
minds at all ; and that,’ says he, ‘ is the infernal 
mystery of it.’ And now, I ask yon, Matthew,” 
Mrs. Pincher continued, “ if neither of them had 
changed their minds, why didn’t the wedding come 
off?” 

“ Tliat’s more than I can tell, Mrs. Pincher,” said 
Matthew, “ but it don’t look to me as if it was 
coming off now. It don’t look to me as if there’d 
ever be any wedding at Raburn, and what our 
young Miss will do in this great house all by her- 
self, I can’t think — I don’t like to think.” 

“She isn’t ‘our young Miss’ now,” said Mrs. 
Pincher, with a prodigious sigh. “But I’m sure, 
poor young lady, my ’eart bleeds for her.” 

Then there came the dreadful day of the funeral, 
when the Bishop and the old Rector took the ser- 
vice between them, when people came from far and 
wide to do honor to the last of the Constables, not 
counting, of course, Cecil herself. 

After this Cecil remained alone at Raburn for 
more than three months. It was very bad for her, 
but she obstinately refused to take any advice on 
the subject. 

“ I have lived at Raburn all my life,” she said, in 
answer to an expostulation of Lady Lucifer, “ and 
it’s not a bit more dull to me than any other place 
would be. It’s awfully kind of you, Violet, to ask 


300 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP, 


me to come and stay with yon, bnt yonrs is a gay 
house, and I’m not fit for gayety just now. I would 
rather be alone with my sorrow. By and bye I shall 
have got used to it, and then, I suppose, I shall have 
to go out into the world again. But for the pres- 
ent there is no place to me like my home.” ^ 

“But, my dear child,” Lady Lucifer cried, “how 
can you bear to live in this great rambling house all 
by yourself ? ” 

“I have always lived in it,” said Cecil. 

“ I know you have always lived in it — but you’ve 
not lived in it alone.” 

“ I have got to live here alone now,” the girl cried, 
in trembling tones. 

“ Well, my dear, I’ve not come here to upset you. 
Heaven knows I think of you continually, and I’m 
sure, Cecil, nobody was so sorry as I was when 
your engagement to the Bishop was broken off. 
Don’t think, dear, I’m saying this to upset you or 
to touch upon any wound, but, of course, nobody 
understood why it was.” 

“ I know that,” Cecil mui’inured. 

“ I never like to speak about it, and I never liked 
to even hint at it before, but I thought it was just 
possible that the Bishop might have ” 

“ Jilted me,” suggested Cecil. 

“ Well, I wasn’t going to put it in that way, but 
he might have felt he had made a mistake or 


AMEN! 


301 


something of that kind. Still, the day j^onr poor 
father was buried, I was standing behind you, Cecil, 
and I saw him look at you, as he was turning away 
from the grave-side, and I knew in a moment that 
it had not been his doing.” 

“ Oh, don’t,” Cecil cried, ‘‘ donH, Try not to 
think about it — it doesn’t matter whether he or I 
broke it off — it must be all the same to the world. 
There was not any case of jilting about it, one side 
or the other. We decided that we would not marry, 
and that is as much as the world need know or 
ought to know. But don’t talk about it, and don’t 
press me to come and stay with you, Violet — I 
can’t. You must not expect it — ^you must not ask 
it. And don’t worry about my being here alone. 
I’m not more unhappy or sad or miserable here 
than I should be anywhere else ; and I should be 
miserable if you put me down in the midst of a 
crowd.” 

So Lady Lucifer was obliged to leave the matter, 
and so everybody who 'ventured to touch upon it, 
was also constrained to do. And the cold and cheer- 
less spring passed over, and every day Cecil grew 
more pale and wan ; and every day the Bishop 
seemed to look older and graver, until it was patent 
to all interested beholders, that these two were 
breaking their hearts for each other, although there 
was apparently no reasonable bar to their marriage. 


502 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


During all this time, Cecil had never heard the 
Bishop preach, since that fateful sermon in Sparks- 
worth Church. She had duly and truly sought for 
light but, with every day, her unbelief had been 
confirmed, rather than helped and dispelled. The 
more she read, and the more she heard, the less did 
she seem able to accept those old teachings, which 
have lasted for so many centuiies. The more she 
read and the more she heard, the more convinced 
was she that the pieces did not fit, that the whole 
thing was a fallacy, and that there was no founda- 
tion of truth in it whatever. 

The events of the two past years had changed the 
Bishop, quite as much as they had changed Cecil. 
When first he became Bishop of Blankhampton, 
there had been only one thing in any sense against 
him, which was that people had told each other that 
although the matter of his sermons was good, the 
manner of them left much to be desired. But in 
that he was greatly changed. From the time of 
his broken engagement, although he had never seen 
Cecil in any of the many churches at which he had 
preached, he was in imagination, always trying to 
reclaim that lost soul, so infinitely and so unspeak- 
ably precious to him. From being a plain, practical 
preacher of the Broad-church type, he had gradually 
become more argumentative, more doctrinal, very 
persuasive and, at times, highly impassioned. 


“ AMEN! ” 


3oa 

“ It seems,” said one of his hearers one day, after 
a most fervent discourse on the difficulties and tlie 
beauties of faith, “ it seems as if the Bishop’s dis- 
appointment has made him throw liimself more 
heart and soul into his work, even than he was 
to begin with. Upon my word, he preached to- 
night as if someone he loved was on the brink of 
stepping into hell, and only his eloquence could 
save him.” 

“ Iler^ more likely,” returned the other dryly. 

“ I suppose Miss Constable is all right in that 
respect ? ” said the first speaker. 

“ Oh, yes. The Constables have always been 
particularly pious people, and she is far more so 
than ever Sir Edward was. She is very devout — 
I see her about continually at different churches. 
Oh, it’s not that.” 

“ I wonder what it was.” 

‘‘ My dear chap, that’s what we shall never know 
— never. It is one of the mysteries of what we call 
life. But, upon my word, it has pulled both of 
them completely to pieces ; they have never looked 
the same since, either of them.” 

‘‘And he buried Sir Edward — that was so 
queer.” 

“Well, Sir Edward thought a lot of him, you 
know. Sir Edward was awfully disappointed when 
the marriage did not come off. By the bye, you 


804 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


know that Canon Yerulam is going to preach on 
Sunday at the Parisli ? ” 

“ Yes — yes, I heard it.’’ 

Shall yon go ? ” 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“ He is going to stay at the Palace.” 

“Oh, is he? Yes, I think I shall go and hear 
him ; Pve never heard him.” 

Well, naturally enough, the following Sunday 
drew a vast crowd to the morning service in the 
choir of the Parish, a crowd of people eager and 
anxious to hear a man, who was called by many, 
“the modern Savonarola” — the most impassioned 
preacher of modern times. Among them was 
Cecil Constable, who was in her accustomed place 
in the second row of the stalls, close to the pulpit 
and immediately opposite to the Bishop’s throne. 
In due time, the oigan began to play, and the choir 
and clergy to pass slowly into the church. And 
the last of that long white-robed procession was the 
Bishop of the diocese, whose dignified head tow- 
ered above all others. Cecil’s heart gave a great 
throb, as he passed before her on his way to the 
episcopal throne, and prevented her from perceiv- 
ing that there was no unusual figure in the proces- 
sion. She never gave a thought to the preacher, 
until the time came for the sermon. She had 
scrupulously avoided looking up during the service. 


AMEN/ 


305 


until she heard the well-known tones speaking 
from the throne opposite. 

“ I stand here to-daj,” he said, “ in the place of 
tlie most eloquent preacher to whom it has ever 
been my lot to listen, feeling myself a poor substi- 
tute for him, but trusting that you will bear with 
me, when I tell you that he, who should have 
spoken this morning, received an urgent message, 
summoning liim, to what, I fear, is the dying bed of 
a near and dear relative. In this affliction, I would 
ask for your prayers for him.” Then he gave out 
his text : 

“ Wherefore^ if God so clothe the grass of the 
fields which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into 
the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, 0 ye 
of little faith f ” 

Surely, if eloquence and impassioned utterance 
were the qualities for which the preacher, who 
should have enchained the attention of that con- 
gregation, was renowned, the people lacked nothing 
because of their Bishop being substituted for him. 
Hever was a sermon so passionately pathetic, poured 
out on human ears before. The congregation was 
electrified, and Cecil Constable sat with her great 
eyes fixed upon him, her face strained with eager 
attention, her lips a little apart, but with that same 
terrible seehing look upon her face, which had first 
attracted him toward her. 

20 


306 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


“ Cast aside yonr faitli, break down the beliefs 
of your childhood, and what have you left ? Noth- 
ing — nothing — nothing. Oh, it is so easy, so fatal- 
ly easy, to find fault — even with God Almighty, 
who made you. It is so fascinating to take up an 
attitude which asks for proof. ‘ Give me proof and 
I will believe,’ cries the soul, which has belief in 
nothing ! It is so fascinating to be wiser than our 
fathers, to regard old faiths as fables, old beliefs as 
mere nurses’ tales, food for babies, but not for 
strong men ! It is so easy to pull down, so hard to 
build up ! One weak soul may undo in a single 
day what has taken centuries of faith to put to- 
gether. There is 7io worlc so easy as the work of 
the iconoclast, no work so pitifully easy as that of 
finding fault, of picking holes, of pointing out the 
joints in the harness, the flaws in the jewels of 
God. But — I would ask of you to pause and reflect 
for a moment 1 There are those of little or no faith, 
who take away one standpoint after another, who re- 
fute this, who cannot accept that. And when such 
an one has taken all — what have you left ? Noth- 
ing — nothing — nothing! Then, with no faith, 
wdth no belief in that divine personality which has 
carried men and women through the baptism of fire 
or, by the long divorce of steel, to the Heaven of 
the Saints, what is left to the unbeliever to make 
this poor life of oiu’s worth living ? I say to you — 


“ AMEN/ 


807 


nothing, nothing ! A few short years of struggle 
and strife, of disappointment, and care and sorrow, 
of growing infirmities or of sharper bodily pains, 
and then — what? ITothing — nothing! JS’o hope, 
no recompense, only the blank silence of the grave ! 
And yet, O, ye of little faith — you can boldly ask 
for proof before you will accept the divine story of 
Christ’s love. I say to you that if you could prove, 
beyond all shadow of doubt, that there is as little 
truth in the story of the gospel as you now believe, 
that you would do a cruel act in putting that proof 
about. If we Christians, the humble believers and 
followers of Christ, are all wrong, if the whole story 
is a fable and a fallacy, we are yet happier and 
richer and more blessed in our faith than those 
who have no faith, those who must have proof, 
cold, material proof, before they can accept what is 
their best, truest, deepest interest to accept. I say, 
if the believing Christian is wrong in his belief, the 
belief which will carry him over a lifetime of 
trouble and adversity, if there is, as the Agnostic or 
the Atheist say, an end of all things human, when 
death has laid his finger upon our weary eyes, I 
still say the Christian has the best of it. He has 
at least pressed forward to a high ideal, he has had 
before him the model of a life, which even Atheists 
admit to be perfect, he has hoped for — striven 
after and struggled for a higher and a nobler life 


308 


THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 


than any other on this earth, and even if there is 
nothing beyond the grave, he is more blest in his 
blind belief, his blind faith, than the unbeliever in 
what to him is an assured span, an assured blank.” 

During the early part of the service, the May 
sunshine had been streaming through the windows, 
but, during the sermon, a storm broke over the 
great edifice. Those in the choir never forgot the 
scene. The pitiless rain beating hard upon the 
roof, beating hard against the great windows, and 
otherwise a dead silence, only broken by the voice 
of the Bishop, pouring forth one impassioned, 
pleading sentence after another, and ending with 
outstretched arms — “Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, 
thou that killest the prophets and stonest them 
which are sent to thee, how often would I have 
gathered thy children together, even as a hen gath- 
ereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would 
not. 

“ Behold, your house is left unto 3’ou desolate. 
For I say unto you. Ye shall not see Me hence- 
forth, till ye say Blessed is he that cometh in the 
name of the Lord.” 

Across the crowd of men and women, two souls 
stood face to face, two hearts lay bare, one before 
the other — the palpitating, bleeding, passionate, 
eager heart of the one, and the crushed, aching, 
hopeless, despairing, lonely heart of the other. 


AMEN/ 


309 


And between them lay the unbridgeable, impass- 
able, bottomless gulf of Fate — the cruel fate which 
had made the one mind see in religion all that was 
living, loving and beautiful, all that was satisfying, 
sustaining and comforting ; the fate which had 
given to the other only the hunger wliich no spir- 
itual food could feed, a mind which could take 
nothing, nothing on trust, a mind in which practi- 
cal reasoning was unhappily carried to such excess, 
that the pieces never seemed to fit ; a mind which 
could accept nothing, believe nothing, hope for 
nothing ; a soul torn by a thousand passions, wholly 
unable to believe in the one thing which would 
have made the way clear for earthly happiness, and 
the hope of happiness in the world to come. 

So they stood, this man and this woman, who 
loved each other beyond all the world, who loved 
each other for time and for eternity and who yet 
were utterly and irrevocably apart forever. . . . 

So they stood, the Bishop with eyes and head and 
heart on fire, wrestling with God and Satan both 
for the light to be let in on this one precious soul, 
striving for some way to be opened out before her 
doubting eyes, the eyes which could not see even a 
single foot of the road. And she . . . hope 

all dead, life all blasted, love - starved, and heart 
desolate though so full, gave up from that moment 
even the one little thread of joy in loving him 


310 THE SOUL OF THE BISHOP. 

which had seemed to keep her woman’s heart 
alive. 

Then the Bishop uttered the words which gave 
the glory of his heart’s agony to God above j and 
the choir chanted Amen / 


THE END. 



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SOUL OF THE BISHOP 


BY 

JOHN STRANGE WINTER 

AUTHOR OF “ROOTLES’ BABY,” ETC. 


NEW YORK 

J. SELWIN TAIT & SONS 


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